The Blue Rose (8 page)

CHAPTER
NINE

CLARE offered to drop Rose somewhere in her car but Rose said that she would rather walk. She was going straight to the coffee bar to help Francie prepare for the cocktail party that evening, but there was plenty of time. She felt that a little fresh air and exercise would restore her to a more peaceful frame of mind, and besides she wanted to think over everything Clare had said while it was still fresh in her head. She felt disturbed and depressed. She was worried that Clare had seen her in the taxi with Tony the day before, although she was quite sure that Clare would not tell Stephen. But she hated the thought of keeping anything from Stephen. And yet Clare had spent most of lunch telling her that she must keep things from him if she wanted to make her marriage a success. She
must
keep part of herself back. She
must
forever be acting a part. To be herself was a luxury, a self-indulgence, that she could not afford
...
The thought was dreadfully depressing. All this analysing of love cheapened it somehow.

Was Clare right? She would talk it over with Stephen
...
But then it occurred to her that if Clare was right that was the one thing she could not do. Stephen would say things to her that he didn’t really mean. Just as Clive had said that about jealousy when he and Clare first became engaged
...
Look what Stephen had said to her about the house—that she could change anything in it if she liked
—
and yet he had told Clare how “delighted and relieved” he was that she liked it just as it was. How thankful she was now that she had not told him at once all the little things she longed to change. Now she would never tell him. She would keep up the pretence that it was all perfect. If he liked those dark covers and rather sombre curtains she must get to like them too. How lucky it was that Clare had told her about that. It would be sad never to see that lovely drawing-room in reality as she could see it so clearly in her mind’s eye—so gay and countrified—looking on to green grass and flowers. She mustn’t do a thing or say a word now either about altering the garden. He liked it paved like that. It meant that they would never have the pleasure of lying out on a rug on the grass, but what was that compared to not displeasing him?

And what was it that Clare had said about encouraging his friends? She remembered with a spasm of guilt how only the other evening, when Stephen had suggested asking Robin Johnson to dine with them, she had said without attaching any importance to it: “Oh, no, do let’s be on our own.” Thank goodness Clare had opened her eyes to that danger. She would do something to make up. She would sacrifice their precious Sunday. She would ask Stephen to invite Robin to go with them into the country next Sunday. She would be as nice to him as she possibly could.

...
And she must remember all that about Stephen’s bachelor ways. She would insist on his dining at his club once a week after they were married. He would see how unselfish and unpossessive she was. She would say that it
pleased
her that he should go; that she
wanted
him to go. And when he replied: “But what will
you
do?” she would answer: “Ah hah! there is plenty I can do
...
Don’t you worry about
me.”
She would sound mysteriously attractive.
Of course that was the way to behave. Clare was absolutely right. Clare knew. Of course it was the way to keep one’s husband. One couldn’t be oneself. If one were completely natural, when he suggested going to dine at the club, one would wail: “Oh, please don’t leave me. I shall be so lost and miserable without you.” No man would stand for that, let alone a man who had known such complete freedom as Stephen. Yes, she must remember that Stephen was accustomed to being free. She must do nothing to curtail his liberty.

It was really quite easy. It was just an attitude of mind. Thank goodness Clare had made her see it in time. It was rather like sitting down in a certain mood to write a letter. You could write just the same news in a dozen different styles according to your mood—either gay, melancholy, sarcastic, tragic, facetious
...
She must begin her marriage with Stephen on a gay note. So far there had been very little gaiety in their love. It had burnt with a fierce intensity. That was all very well for first romance, but for the homecoming after the honeymoon—when, as Clare said, things were at their most difficult—it would be up to her to strike a different note.

By the time she got to the coffee bar her depression had vanished. She looked up at the name over the door. Botticelli. That had been Stephen’s idea, inspired by her the first time he had met her. She had reminded him, he said, of Botticelli’s Venus rising from the waves. The thought of his love for her sent a warm current of happiness surging through her. Of course everything was going to be all right. Now that her eyes had been opened to the dangers of married life everything would be easy. They were going to be so happy—happier than any two people had ever been in the world before.

For the next few hours she was kept too busy to think. The bar really looked lovely. Clare had done it beautifully. Rose’s heart warmed towards her. She had not liked everything Clare had said at lunch, but it had helped her to see things clearly, and that was the duty of a real friend. It was what a mother might have said who is never afraid of home truths. Very often you resent your parents just because they do have the courage to tell you the truth.

The guests began to arrive even before the time stated in the invitations, and Heather Collins, the actress, was there as the celebrity of the evening, which rather indicated that it was going to be a good party. Anyway, that awkward hiatus was avoided when the hosts have to hang about wondering whether anybody is going to turn up at all. Rose found her eyes straying all the time to the door. It seemed an age since she had seen Stephen and never had she so longed for his warm and thrilling presence.

II

Rose began to get quite worried when eight o’clock came and there was still no sign of Stephen. The party was quite spoilt for her, though judging from the number of people there and the animated chatter, it was a great general success. There was something of a scene, however, between one young couple which Rose witnessed. The wife was trying to drag her husband away from the party. “We must go,” she was saying. “We must get back to Jamie,” and then in explanation she turned to Francie and said: “It’s such a lovely party but Jamie had a slight temperature when we left this evening and I didn’t like leaving him. It’s probably only teething but one never knows.”

“Oh, don’t fuss so,” her husband retorted. “We’ve got a sitter, haven’t we, and left our telephone number? She’s promised to ring you if he gets worse.”

Clare Frenton happened to be standing near Rose when this interchange took place and she raised her eyebrows as much as to say: “What did I tell you? Here is an instance of a couple who have not studied the art of marriage!”

To Rose’s delight she suddenly saw Stephen enter the shop. She quickly made her way over to him. “I was afraid something had happened to you.”

“I am so sorry, but I was kept at a meeting in the City
—
and then I had to go home and change my shirt. I felt so grubby. I would have telephoned to you but I thought it would be awkward in the middle of the party.”

She had never known anyone as clean as Stephen or one who changed his linen so often. His laundry bills must be terrific.

“Never mind, you’re here now,” she said.

Later, when they were alone together, she asked him what would have happened about his meeting in the City if they had slipped away together that day to get married.

“I just wouldn’t have gone to the meeting,” he replied. “But when once I was there I had to stay until it broke up
...
I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to my getting home late occasionally, and I shan’t always be able to let you know.”

They did not see each other alone for long that evening. After the party, which did not break up until nine, Rose and Francie cooked bacon and eggs in the shop for the few friends, including the Frentons, who had stayed on. When at last they got away by themselves Rose hoped that Stephen would take her back to his house, but to her intense disappointment he told her firmly that he was not going to take her back there again in the evening until after they were married, and when she asked him for his reason he replied: “I suppose the reason is that I love you too much.” She was beginning to regret very much that she had not gone off with him secretly that day to get married.

Remembering her resolution not to be too possessive with him, she suggested that they might ask Robin Johnson to go with them somewhere into the country on Sunday. Stephen seemed a little surprised, but then he said: “All right. It’s quite an idea. I’ll ask him. I’d like you to get to know him better.”

Rose felt that she had done right in making the suggestion but she couldn’t help hoping with all her heart that Robin would have a prior engagement.

III

The next evening they had dinner with the Frentons. It is inevitable with people who have known each other for a long time that the past should crop up again and again in the conversation, and Rose felt a good deal out of it during most of dinner. There were only the four of them present, and the other three seemed to have shared so much together; there were so many allusions to past jokes and pleasures and acquaintances in which she could not share. Clare monopolized Stephen, and Rose and Clive did not seem to have very much to say to each other. Clive was scrupulously polite to her but he was not an easy man to talk to, and for the first time that evening she got a strange sort of impression that he was not absolutely at home in his own flat. If Rose had not known that he was Clare’s husband she might easily have mistaken him for another guest, though a guest who was called upon at moments to act the part of host—when the wines were poured out, for instance, or the cigarettes handed round.

After dinner Clare showed them her present. “It’s too big to bring in here,” she said, “so you’ll have to come and see it in Clive’s dressing-room. I didn’t want you to see it before dinner, so I couldn’t even put it in my own bedroom where Rose left her coat.”

To get to Clive’s dressing-room they had to go through Clare’s bedroom, and Rose noticed that only one side of Clare’s big bed had been toned down, and that a single bed in Clive’s dressing-room had been turned down for him. The thought came to her involuntarily: “I wouldn’t like Stephen ever to sleep in a separate room.”

When Clare said: “There, what do you think of it,” Rose could not believe for a moment that she was referring to a huge, and what seemed to her at first sight a perfectly hideous, screen—but it turned out that this was the present. “It is painted by a young artist who I believe will go a long way,” Clare was saying, “and I think it will look lovely at the dining end of your drawing-room to hide the door into the pantry.”

When you know that somebody has taken a great deal of trouble to find you a very special present you have to be very much more than human not to pretend to be delighted with it—and this was the position in which Rose now found herself. The screen was painted on one side with enormous eyes and on the other with faces without eyes. “You see,” Clare explained, “the eyes really fit the faces. If you could see
through
the screen you would be able to see them, but as it is, of course, you can’t see through
...
I think he has been awfully clever. I don’t know how he has done it.”

Rose found herself voicing her delight and thanking Clare as warmly as she could, but in truth she was utterly dismayed, for it had already occurred to her that it would be impossible, without offending Clare, not to have the screen in evidence when she came to visit them, and it was much too big to be moved just for the occasion of a visit. But never mind, Stephen couldn’t possibly like it and he would think of some way of dealing with the problem. Clare was first and foremost his friend so it really was up to him to do something about it. Or
did
he like it? He was certainly thanking Clare for it with apparent sincerity. She must be very careful to find out whether he liked it or not before she expressed her own opinion. After what Clare had said to her at lunch the day before she couldn’t be too careful.

“Now tell me the truth.” Clare said. “Do you
really
like it?”

Stephen looked inquiringly at Rose and she smiled at him. “Yes, we certainly do,” he answered for them. “It’s a most original present and we can’t thank you enough for it.”

“Good. I’m delighted. Then I’ll get it sent round to you in the morning.”

The rest of the evening passed very pleasantly listening to gramophone records and they were able to leave soon after eleven. “I’m so delighted you like that screen,” Stephen said as they drove off in his car. “I know Clare has taken so much trouble to choose it—to get us something she thought we would really like.”

Rose’s heart sank. She would never now be able to say what she really thought of it. She would have to put up with that dreadful thing in the drawing-room for the rest of her life. But perhaps she was wrong not to like it. If Clare and Stephen liked it there must be something in it which she hadn’t understood. She must try and get to understand modern art. Perhaps it would grow on her.

“It was wonderful of her to take so much trouble,” she said. “I would like to see some more of that artist’s work.”

“Yes,” Stephen replied, “so should I.”

They did not seem altogether at ease with each other that evening. What was the matter? It was almost as if there was a screen between them. Perhaps it was
the
screen.