An Affair to Remember Read online

  Since then she had had a number of jobs: she was intelligent, good looking, and if, as one of her bosses put it, her personality was a bit on the ‘offbeat’ side, her work was always efficient. And as she slowly climbed the secretarial ladder the years – bedsitters, flat sharing, holidays abroad, mostly with girlfriends; the odd affair, mostly with married men and never, seemingly, coming to anything – had somehow slipped away. And here she was, she told herself, a tear dripping down her nose and a lump in her throat, as she stepped out of the stifling train on to the slightly less stifling platform at Kensington High Street, at the age of thirty-two, the archetypal ‘Other Woman’ with nothing to show for the years that had gone but a room in a friend’s flat, and the ability to be a glorified nursery maid to conceited arseholes of the likes of Mr Taylor. Beatrice, though seldom using bad language in public, or only when she was very angry, liked to use it to herself in private; somehow it gave her a sense of release, as if in a curious fashion by using it (the coarser the better) she was tapping into the real her.

  She’d made a few friends of course, over the years. The difficulty was so many of her girlfriends had either married or for various reasons moved away from London, and somehow as one got older it seemed more difficult to make new ones, proper ones, anyway. At least, she thinks, as she crosses Ken High Street practically under the wheels of a 73 bus (who cares?), she had her current flat mate, Sylvia.

  Sylvia Cambell and her large, rambling mansion flat on the borders of Kensington and Earls Court, is definitely a plus in Beatrice’s life. They have known each other for around three years now. An aged aunt of Sylvia’s had bequeathed her the flat in her Will at the end of the 1970s – a true gift from the gods coming just as the price of property was beginning to rocket upwards. Too big for one, having two quite large bedrooms, she’d advertised for someone to share it. Beatrice’s was the first reply; they’d taken to each other on sight, and she’d lived there ever since. Her bedroom was a large, sunny room overlooking a quiet square, and they shared the sitting room, kitchen and bathroom.

  Sylvia, several years Beatrice’s senior, had married briefly and unsuccessfully, and although possessing a large and shifting population of male friends, had vowed never to marry again. She seemed to Beatrice, whose calm and self-possessed exterior masked a frightened and self-doubting interior, to be totally self-sufficient, her life organised, her course set. Possessing a small private income – the aged aunt again – which she supplemented by publishing the odd short story and dabbling in journalism, the rest of her time was largely spent involving herself in politics. She was a member of The Fabian Society and organisations of the likes of CND, Oxfam and War on Want. Beatrice loved her and not infrequently thanked the gods, if gods there were, for arranging their meeting.

  It was on Sylvia’s advice that after an evening spent feeling particularly low, she had decided to advertise herself in the Find a Friend columns of the magazine Where to Go. ‘Lady,’ – there’d been a certain amount of discussion as to whether to describe herself as ‘lady’ or ‘young woman’, lady had won – ‘Lady, thirties, interested in theatre, reading, holidays abroad, wishes to meet gentleman of similar tastes –’ (‘tastes’, wasn’t ‘tastes’ a bit iffy? Oh never mind) ‘– similar tastes, with a view to friendship.’ To date she’d received around half a dozen replies, but out of these – one of which had been quite frankly pornographic – only the man she was supposed to be meeting tonight, Wain Steerforth, seemed remotely suitable.

  The voice came again as, hands sticky with sweat, she fumbles for her front door key, and in spite of the heat she shivers. Was this the start of schizophrenia?

  “Syl, I think I must be going round the bend, I keep hearing these voices. Perhaps it would be better if I didn’t meet this jerk tonight after all.”

  Sylvia looks up from the pile of jumble she’s sorting: “Don’t be daft. There’s nothing wrong with you. And anyway, how do you know he’s a jerk; he may be the very one, the man of your dreams…” She holds up a bedraggled jumpsuit of a particularly sick-making shade of green, “I know it’s unchristian to say so, but honestly, people must really be scraping the barrel, did you ever see such a load of junk?”

  “But Syl, this voice in my head keeps calling for someone called Brian, it’s really odd. She sounds desperate, it’s a woman’s voice and –”

  “Oh go on with you and have a bath, just to look at you makes me sweat.” Syl chucks the jumpsuit into a waiting rubbish sack and picks up an outsize orange sweater full of holes and only one arm. “And by the way, mind the Ascot, the damned thing’s on the blink again. If I’ve phoned that bloody man once I’ve phoned him a hundred times, but all I ever get’s his answer-phone, honestly, I beginning to wonder if he’s done a runner…”

  “Quite frankly,” Beatrice makes for the door, “I don’t care if the bloody thing explodes. At least it might provide a spot of excitement.”

  “Toad!” Sylvia grins and adds the jersey to the growing pile of rubbish. “Now where do I know of a one-armed woman with a preference for orange?”

  Marginally refreshed after her bath, but not much – the Ascot made some rather sinister noises, but failed to explode – Beatrice, trying to be objective, takes stock of herself in the mirror, and has to cautiously admit she doesn’t look too bad; the green linen sheath dress she bought at C & As, even though it was in the sale, really does suit her. I look like one of Father’s Roman goddesses, she thinks, smiling at her mirror image – even a bit sexy. Perhaps too sexy. Oh God! We don’t want to give this Wain Steerforth too much of a fright – or do we? For a fleeting moment another Beatrice looks out from the mirror: a knowing, definitely sexy, possibly even wicked Beatrice, to be replaced, however, almost immediately by the old, familiar, hiding-her-light-under-a-bushel Beatrice, who, hastily turning away from such a subversive image, drapes a black and rather tatty cardigan over her shoulders in a misguided effort to cover her all too obvious cleavage, picks up her shoulder bag and makes for the door. Mustn’t keep the bastard waiting.

  And Wain Steerforth, at the sight of her, does indeed look terrified, or if not terrified, distinctly nervous, even slightly disapproving. As expected he fails to live up to his noble name, but is small and bald, with pebble glasses. His reply to her ad had stated he was in his forties, but his skin has that curious embalmed look, possibly a little slimy to the touch; he could be any age. When Beatrice first sees him, leaning against a pillar in the foyer at the Barbican being jostled by impatient theatre goers, pretending to read the Guardian – it had been arranged between then they should each carry a copy of the Guardian newspaper for the purpose of identification – she prays without hope that it won’t be him. It is of course him, as she knew it would be. Come on Travers, don’t be an arsehole, says the other Beatrice mockingly, you can deal with this. But can she? She bloody hopes so. If not… Taking a deep breath, she pulls the black cardigan more tightly across her bosom, and with a smile – probably more of a grimace than a smile – she walks towards him: “Mr Steerforth? Hi, I’m Beatrice Travers.”

  “Ah, er, Miss Travers.” Oh God he really does look terrified; why did I come? Why Did I Bloody Come? “I wasn’t expecting you so, so –”

  “Soon? I’m afraid I’m one of those awful people who are always too early for things.” Wain Steerforth looks at her disapprovingly; his eyes hovering for an instant at her still only too visible cleavage before straying downwards to her crotch. “Would you like a drink before we go in? I don’t myself, but I’m sure I can manage to procure one for you.” She declines. He looks relieved. “If you are sure? Let us go in then. I hope my choice of play isn’t too strong for you. I’ve always had a soft spot for Webster, despite his predilection for mass mayhem. One must of course remember that when dealing with the Jacobeans one is dealing with the linear descendants of an age...” Beatrice follows meekly behind him, his words drifting back to her through the sweaty crowd. They hurry upstairs, passing rapidly through the now empty circl
e bar, Wain, head down, by now halfway through his first year’s lecture. “You must remember,” he’s saying as they find their seats in Row C, “that in relative terms Jacobean tragedy is always –”

  “As a matter of fact I have seen The Duchess of Malfi before. A really brilliant production at the Old Vic and –”

  “Would you care for a box of chocolates?” Wain, plainly disliking having his discourse interrupted, puts her in her place. “I’m not in the habit of eating during a performance myself, but I understand the ladies…” Hastily she declines the offer, makes a joke about not being able to afford to eat chocolate with her figure. He looks her up and down, taking in her noble lines. Nods, turns back to his programme. She’s made yet another mistake. Disappointment for a moment overwhelms her; where is bloody Brian now, she wonders forlornly. The auditorium lights dim; the buzz of talk round them slowly trickles into silence. The play begins.

  “Well, it’s been a most enjoyable experience, er, Beatrice. I trust the performance was to your taste? I have to confess I found it a little on the anaemic side: these old tragedies must be played for all they are worth or not at all, don’t you agree?”

  “Not entirely,” Beatrice re-drapes the black cardigan, over her shoulders, “I’m afraid that if there’s too much blood and guts lying about the stage I have a tendency to giggle. I can’t help feeling that to pile on the agony too blatantly does sometimes manage to turn the whole thing into a bit of a farce.”

  “Perhaps.” He plainly disagrees, but equally plainly can’t be bothered to argue the point. They’re seated rather uncomfortably in a coffee bar near the theatre. Neither of them want coffee, nor, it has to be said, to spend any longer in each other’s company than convention demands. Beatrice looks at her watch, “Good heavens, is that the time. I better get going, buses are few and far between at this time of the night, and it always seems to take ages to get to Kensington.” Wain, showing the first sign real enthusiasm he’s shown all evening, jumps to his feet, pushes back the spindly plastic-covered stool he’s been perching on with such force it hits the occupant of the table behind him – a heavily made-up lady of uncertain age in a leopardskin patterned mini skirt.

  “Mind how you go, dear,” she says, giving him a look, “you nearly had my tea over.”

  Wain, a faint flush on his otherwise parchment coloured cheeks, apologises, Beatrice tries to contain her giggles, says, after all three parties have finally pulled themselves together, “It’s been a most interesting evening, Wain,” (liar) “and I really enjoyed the play. Thank you so much.”

  Wain smiles a thin smile, puts out his hand, “I’m glad you enjoyed it. I’m only sorry I cannot accompany you back to Kensington,” (liar) “but Cockfosters is of course in the opposite direction. However, I have your phone number, and will if I may, give you a ring. Not in the immediate future, I’m afraid, Mother and I are off to Italy for a brief break before term begins, and there’s always a hundred and one things to do at the start of the new academic year.”

  “Of course.” Unusually for her Beatrice finds herself lost for words, then realises she just simply can’t be bothered to think of anything else to say. She holds out her hand; his skin feels slimy to the touch. “Goodbye then and thank you once again for everything.” At the door she turns to give him a friendly wave, but he’s still standing where she left him staring glassily ahead, a man in a dream. Oh well…

  Back in the flat, Sylvia, still up, switches off the TV. “Only rubbish, I slept through most of it. Well then, how did it go?”

  “Grim, Syl, grim, if you really want to know. He was worse than I expected, nearly as bad as Mr Taylor and that’s saying something. He didn’t like me much either, in fact he couldn’t wait to get away.”

  She looks haunted, Sylvia’s thinking, feeling a tingling of unexpected shock, that’s the only word for it, surely a dud date shouldn’t make her look like that? Something’s really wrong, must be. “And what about the play?” she asks brightly, hoping for a more positive response, “I know one doesn’t exactly enjoy Webster, but –”

  “Brilliant. It really was.” Beatrice slumps into a chair; the black cardigan falls in a heap on the floor, she looks down at it with loathing. “I envied the Duchess of Malfi having all those frightful things happening to her, at least they were happening, not everything going off at half cock.” And to Syl’s consternation, she bursts into tears.

  Feeling inadequate, she pats her friend’s heaving shoulders. “Surely, luv, he can’t have been that bad? Did something happen on the way home – something else?”

  “No, nothing happened, quite a good journey actually, and no, he wasn’t that bad, probably rather sad really. He had a mother…”

  “That wouldn’t help. Look, luv, what about a good strong drink? Paddy brought back a duty free bottle of gin from his last trip to Beirut and gave it to me as he’s on the wagon at the moment; nothing to put in it but water, but it might help.”

  Beatrice sits up, dries her eyes. “I would absolutely love a good, strong drink, Syl, and you’re the best friend a girl ever had. There’s nothing at this moment I’d like to be more than completely, utterly sloshed.”

  Syl, a little worried by her reaction – had her offer been a mistake? – makes for the kitchen, “I’ll just get some ice to put in the water, it might improve the taste of the gin a bit.”

  “Frankly I don’t care how nasty it tastes as long as it does the trick,” Beatrice calls after her, picking up a copy of The Lady magazine lying on the coffee table beside her chair, “and what on earth are you doing with The Lady? I wouldn’t have thought it was your sort of thing – all those knitting patterns and ‘how I love my moggy’ stories.”

  “Actually it’s not a bad magazine,” Syliva returns from the kitchen carrying two brimming glasses and a packet of cheese and bacon crisps on a small tray, “and they do sometimes take the odd article of mine. Not good payers, but all outlets are grist to the writer’s mill, you know.” Beatrice accepts the gin, takes a grateful gulp, crunches a crisp.

  “Look at these ads, Syl, honestly I can’t believe such people still exist. ‘Second footman for Lady Deidre Delaware, must be reliable and a car driver’; she reads out; ‘Wanted: Housekeeper for elderly lady. Own flat, staff kept’; ‘Harassed Author/TV Exec urgently requires literate P.A. Must have shorthand/typing skills and be willing to learn computer. Good accommodation offered right person in pleasant house in Suffolk. Please write Box…’” Beatrice’s voice trails away; she sits quite still, looking disbelievingly at the words in front of her. “Brian,” says the voice in her head, “Brian?”

  “Christ!”

  “What on earth’s the matter? Is there something wrong with the gin? I know it's a bit –”

  “Syl, I think I’ve found the answer. They must have meant me to – it’s here, in The Lady.” There’s a kind of awed bewilderment in Beatrice’s voice. Syl looks at her; sips her drink. Oh crumbs, she thinks, what next, what bloody next?

  Chapter 2

  “And where are you off to now? Didn’t I tell you last night I’d need the car this morning. I’ve promised to deliver that stuff to the Campbells and then there’s some coffee do up at The Gables.”

  Sam Mallory climbs slowly out of the car and, slamming the door behind him, looks up at his wife with distaste. Leaning out of their bedroom window, still in her dressing gown, her hair, as it appears to Sam more often than not to be, screwed up in heated rollers, her face devoid of makeup, Emmie Mallory is a far from glamorous figure.

  “Sorry dear, I thought you said you wanted it tomorrow, I was only going to nip up to the garage and get some more of that mulch for the garden. It can wait.”

  “It’ll have to! Anyway, I’ll be tied to the shop tomorrow, it’s Karen’s day off, and I can’t see you helping out.” This was unfair: he did, frequently, but he can’t be bothered to argue.

  “Will you be out to lunch?” he asks hopefully.

  “Of course I won’t, so don’t th
ink you can slip off to the pub the moment my back’s turned.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He turns back into the house; he’d better, he thinks gloomily, make a start on those damned VAT returns.

  Emmie shuts the window with a slam. She hadn’t in fact told Sam she’d need the car today, but Jack Fulton rang first thing this morning while he was out on the deliveries: “Look, pet, can we meet? I’ll be passing your way this morning, so what about the Grove – you know, that clump of trees at the top of Dog’s Head Hill – where we met before, say half eleven?”

  “But Jack,” she’d said, her legs as usual turning to water at the sound of his voice, “someone might see the car – you know last time…”

  “I’ll park it off the road, there’s a track – but if you’d rather not come –”