It Ends with Revelations (16 page)

‘No, really. But I’d like some more coffee. Heavens, that’ll be my third cup.’

‘Kit had five, on what she called our day of liberation.’ He signalled with his glass coffee cup to the woman behind the counter and held up two fingers. Someone fed the juke box, which responded with a gentle crooning – a very mawkish melody, Jill felt sure, but she basked in it. Thornton went for the coffee. She observed the clientele with envy; most of it was by now indulging in unabashed affection. Thornton, returning with the coffee, said, ‘As we don’t want to be conspicuous, we’d better at least hold hands.’ They held hands in silence until she forced herself to say, ‘We really ought to go. I’d like a little while at the flat before I call for Miles, just to get back to normal.’

‘You mean to abnormal, surely? That very peculiar life in which you are Mrs Miles Quentin, aged say forty-five.’

‘Geoffrey, you didn’t really think I was as old as that?’

He grinned. ‘Well, I was sure you were under fifty.’

He had already paid. Jill, at the door, looked back. The clientele no more noticed them go than it had noticed them arrive. On the way to the car she said, ‘How beautiful they were!’

‘What, the sandwiches?’

‘Oh, they were, too. But I meant the boys and girls.’

‘I can’t say I was concentrating on them. Sorry the juke box was such hell.’

‘I even liked that,’ said Jill.

While they were waiting at traffic lights on the outskirts of London, he said, ‘When do we meet again, and where?’

She told him he could come to the flat any evening but Sunday – ‘Or on Wednesday afternoon, when Miles has a matinee. And on Saturdays he plays two shows so you could come any time after four-thirty.’

‘I’ll come on Saturday at five. That’ll give you a week to think about things.’

‘And you do some thinking too. Please, Geoffrey –’ The lights changed and he concentrated on driving. After a few minutes she said, ‘Could we park somewhere, just for a few minutes? There’s something I want to say and I need every bit of your attention.’

He turned into a street of drab little houses, drew up, and stopped the engine. She said, ‘Will you let me put a few ideas into your head – for you to think about before we
meet again? Will you listen, and not shut me up?’

He smiled and took her hand. ‘All right. State your case.’

‘Geoffrey, it isn’t only that I don’t want to hurt Miles, or that I know I’m not a suitable wife for you. It’s me. I’d feel lost in your world. Surely the
sensible
thing to do is to have an affair? And if the girls
have
to know, I think I could make them see my point of view. I’m in love with you and God knows I haven’t tried to hide it. But I love Miles too, in a different way. Please don’t try to break up my whole life. I’d have thought you’d feel it was unscrupulous to be so determined to take another man’s wife. Oh, yes, I know the answer to that one. I suppose you wouldn’t have tried if I’d been married to a normal man.’

He said calmly, ‘That’s an interesting point. Faced with a normal marriage I might have had more scruples. But, on second thoughts, no – not once I saw that, as Kit put it, you liked me.’

‘Anyone would think I was sending up signals calling for rescue. I wasn’t. I didn’t know anything about it.’

‘I doubt if you’ve been very honest with yourself for a good many years, Jill. You said this afternoon that you’ve always been able to let one half of your mind fool the other half.’

‘I also said that, in the end, I see what I’ve been up to.’

‘Well, I hope you see it now, about your life with Miles. Anyway, give it some thought during our week’s amnesty. And don’t forget all those years I added to your age. My dearest Jill, it’s utterly wrong that you should be tied to a homosexual.’

She was staring through the windscreen at the drab little street where they had parked. The vista of uniform bay windows reminded her of the street where she and Miles had been staying when they decided to marry. The memory, combined with the tone in which Thornton spoke the word ‘homosexual,’ caused her to turn on him. ‘God blast you,’ she said angrily, ‘don’t be so bloody smug. And you’re hard, Geoffrey – sometimes your face looks as if it’s carved out of granite. And what right have you to be so damned sure of yourself? How do you know you could make me happy? Oh, God, I didn’t mean to say all that. And I’m mad about your face really.’

He had looked both startled and stricken but her last words made him laugh. ‘It’s no use cursing me if you finish up that way. Please don’t think me smug. And I didn’t know I was hard.’

‘You’re not, really. No one could see you with your daughters and think you hard. But you’re being hard with me. And don’t say it’s for my good.’

‘You know it is. As to whether I can give you a happy marriage, I can only say – well, what Miles used to, when you went shopping and weren’t sure if you liked something, “Buy it and find out.” Which reminds me, did you ever buy that hat I showed you in Spa Street?’

‘I’m afraid not. Miles didn’t approve of it.’

‘What cheek! You wait till you’re married to me. I’ll show him how you ought to be dressed. And now, alas, I should hand you back to him, if only for a week.’

‘Geoffrey, I’m
not going to leave him
.’

‘Ssh. The argument’s over.’ He re-started the engine.

They spoke little for the rest of the journey. He would not let her re-open the argument and she felt incapable of small talk. But when he drew up outside her block of flats and she saw the porter coming towards the car, a host of things she wanted to say sprang into her mind. She asked hurriedly, ‘What will you tell the girls?’

‘The truth, in a very short version. And I promise they won’t molest you. See you this day next week at five.

‘It’s a long time off. I’ll be alone every evening, if you should want to come – or perhaps to ring up.’

He shook his head. ‘I’m going to leave you on your own, to think. And I’ll think, too. I promise.’

The porter opened the car door. Suddenly
self-conscious
, she got out instantly, and then felt agonized because she had not said goodbye. She looked back from the entrance to the flats and for a moment they smiled at each other. Then she went through the door the porter held open for her.

Up in the flat she got herself a drink, which reminded her that even her very mild consumption of alcohol might shock the Thornton family. But she must not let herself think about anything now except presenting a normal appearance at the theatre. She carried the drink to her dressing-table and looked at herself. She had more colour than usual but powder took care of that. Far more noticeable was the brightness of her eyes. She tried to look lack-lustre and achieved a hang-dog expression that made her laugh. Perhaps a black dress would have a toning down
effect. She hastily changed into one and, while doing so, visualized herself in a chalk-white evening dress and wondered if she could really wear scarlet. As a girl, she had loved bright colours but looked ghastly in them – but she had looked ghastly in everything. Perhaps now … She pulled her thoughts up. There was something she had to decide before meeting Miles: what was she going to say about the Thornton house? There seemed no reason why she shouldn’t describe it truthfully – and thank goodness, it would be easy to talk about.

It took the porter some little while to get her a taxi and when she reached the theatre the house was coming out. It seemed to have been quite a good one, but a show had to be doing atrocious business not to achieve a fair house on Saturday night, so she was barely surprised when the stage door keeper greeted her ruefully.

‘Sad news of the play tonight, madam. And I did think we’d got a success this time.’

‘Oh, dear – is the notice up?’

‘Went up this afternoon. And yet they all tell me that Mr Quentin’s wonderful.’

Passing through the swing doors she reflected that, as far as she knew, no stage door keeper ever saw a play.

She paused at the notice board. A week’s notice was being given. The run would then have lasted three weeks and three days. She remembered Tom Albion’s
prognostication
at the Spa Street theatre. He had been rather less right when he described the play as a teeterer. A real teeterer would have teetered longer.

The girl A.S.M. greeted her in passing, adding, ‘Isn’t it bad luck?’ Particularly for the stage management, thought Jill; all the hard work of rehearsals plus the provincial and London openings, and no chance to dig themselves into a run. And then there was the poor young author and – oh, dear! Cyril-Doug Digby came down the stairs, much of his make-up still on. He paused on seeing Jill at the notice board. ‘I can’t understand it, Mrs Quentin. We had a smashing house tonight. And audiences
like
us. I’ve had letters asking for my autograph. Why don’t they advertise on the telly? That’d bring people in.’

She explained about the enormous cost of television advertising but saw she was making little impression. So she just said she hoped he would soon get another job.

‘Oh, I’ll be all right,’ he said, cockily. ‘Mr Quentin’s sending me to his agent. He’ll get me on TV again.
Bye-bye
for now, Mrs Quentin. My brother’s waiting for me.’

She glanced after him as he opened the swing doors and saw a tall youth mainly dressed in black leather. Well, it was kind of him to call for his kid brother – not that Cyril really was a kid; she always found it hard to remember that.

Miles, when she reached his dressing room, was
commiserating
with his leading lady. Jill continued the commiseration, while he finished removing his make-up. She waited until the leading lady had gone before saying, ‘I’m so very sorry, darling. How much do you mind?’

‘For myself, not at all. It means I can do the film. But I’m sorry for everyone else. Well, tell me about the
Thornton house. Is it a possibility? I rang Tom after the matinee and he says I can have at least six weeks before the film starts.’

‘The house is utterly out of the question. I’ll tell you at supper.’

Miles’s dresser returned – Jill guessed he had tactfully made himself scarce on the leading lady’s tearful invasion. He was Miles’s favourite dresser; someone else who would be affected by the play’s closure. It was at that moment that she first asked herself how the closure would affect
her
. If Miles wanted her to take a holiday with him … He interrupted her thoughts by saying, ‘Darling, don’t look so worried.’ She must control her expression – which would necessitate controlling her thoughts.

They went to a Soho restaurant for supper, rather than to one of their usual haunts where friends were likely to enquire about the play. Miles said, ‘When a show’s coming off one should appear both decently sad and commendably brave. And as I’m not sad, and have no need for bravery, I’m liable to sound callous. I believe the food’s good here – not that I’m particularly hungry.’

‘Nor I,’ said Jill, wondering how she was to eat anything at all; those toasted sandwiches had been extremely filling.

‘What time did you get back? I telephoned just before we rang up on the second house, but could get no reply.’

‘I must have come in soon after.’

The waiter hovered. They ordered. Then Miles asked what was wrong with the Thornton house. She described it at length, stressing its lonely surroundings, its strange
pink colour, its over-grown hedges and general air of decay.

‘Sounds attractive to me,’ said Miles. ‘Unspoilt.’

‘But the inside, Miles –’ She talked about it until the waiter had served their meal when she concluded, ‘Anyway, apart from being depressing, it’d be an impossible house for us to run.’

‘Did you bow out of it, then? I hope you were tactful. It was so very generous of him to offer to lend it.’

‘I think I managed all right. I stressed that it was too big for us and too isolated. He quite understood.’

‘Well, we’d better entertain him and the girls as soon as I’m free. Were they there today?’

‘No, to my surprise.’ She was thankful to have got that said. ‘I somehow gathered from your telephone talk to Thornton that they were going to be.’

‘Isn’t it time we started calling him Geoffrey? I suppose the gesture should come from me as I’m probably older than he is.’

‘The same age – he happened to mention that he’s forty-two. I did call him Geoffrey today, because he called me Jill. But somehow I shall go on thinking of him as Thornton; it suits him better.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s a harder name.’ She realized that she had a desire to talk about Thornton and must pull up – though it scarcely mattered, as she had said something faintly derogatory.

‘Do you mean he’s hard in looks or in character?’

‘Looks; I don’t know enough about his character. Oh, it was just an idea.’

‘Still, I know what you mean,’ said Miles. ‘There’s a touch of rigidity about his whole personality.’

She was instantly defensive. ‘Perhaps it’s just that he belongs to a different world from ours – less emotional.’

‘Could be that. Anyway, I find him likeable, not to mention good-looking.’

That gave her great pleasure but she managed to sound dubious. ‘Is he good-looking?’

‘Oh, surely. They’re a good-looking family. Any news of the ravishing Julian?’

‘Only that he’s gone abroad.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Miles concentrated momentarily on his supper.

Had she managed well, sounded natural, casual? She thought so. Relieved, she almost shovelled in her Sole Véronique, barely conscious that she was eating, let alone what she was eating.

‘You’re liking that better than I am,’ said Miles. ‘But I’m just not hungry.’

She switched to talking about the play’s failure and worked hard at it – for whenever the conversation flagged she began to think. And she wasn’t going to allow herself the luxury of thought until she was in bed and Miles was safely asleep.

Only then did she relax and let herself re-live her day; the drive amidst the holiday traffic, the first glimpse of the melancholy house, herself alone in it, Thornton’s young
face in the photograph, his face as it was now, the moment when he had first kissed her – at the memory of which she experienced a vertigo not unlike what she felt on the flat’s balcony, except that this present vertigo was wholly pleasurable; all the same it was alarming because she had never experienced anything like it before. Even for Jack, in those days she had so vividly remembered this afternoon, her desire had been more emotional than physical. Well, ten years of repression accounted for much, and she must beware of being fooled by her body, particularly as its sensations had never come up to her expectations in those days of love making in dressing rooms and on the hard floor of that blasted box. I am
not
, she told herself, a really physical woman … and then blissfully sank into sleep.