The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets (36 page)

I
don’t think that I have ever felt so wretched as when I awoke the morning after
the night at the Ritz. At six o’clock I had a headache so terrible that I felt
certain I should die within the hour. When seven o’clock slouched around and I
was still alive, I decided that I had to leave London as quickly as possible.
The thought of seeing Harry over the breakfast table and answering Aunt Clare’s
inevitable machine-gun fire of questions later filled me with horror. I brushed
my teeth and packed — sighing and stuffing my beautiful dress into my case any
old how in the way that one does after something has been worn to unpredictable
effect — and hurried downstairs, tripping over the cat and cursing the squeaky
floorboards outside Charlotte’s room. Goodness, I was thirsty. I simply had to
have a glass of water before I left. I creaked open the kitchen door (funny. I
had never been into the kitchen before, and very smart it was too, all modern
and shiny and not at all like the rest of the house —Phoebe obviously ran a
tight ship) and padded across the room. Running the water under my hand for a
minute, I closed my eyes and tried my hardest not to think too hard about the
night before. It was just too confusing, too awful to have been used like that
in front of Marina, and yet it had been me who had encouraged him… Or had I?
I groaned to myself, wishing that events of last night would sort themselves
out into chronological order in my hurting head. Two full glasses of water
later, I was about to turn round and leave the room when I froze in horror at
the sound of footsteps thudding down the stairs.
Please go away,
I
wished silently. The footsteps got closer. Quite without thinking, I opened the
nearest door, which happened to lead to the pantry, and hid inside. I couldn’t
say exactly what made me do this, only that I felt strongly that the desire not
to see anyone outweighed the possibility of being caught somewhere stupid. The footsteps
followed the precise route that I had taken. I could hear the tap being turned
on, a glass being selected, and, moments later, the contents being consumed. It
could only be Harry, I decided. Charlotte always carried water upstairs with
her at night, and Aunt Clare would never gulp like that. Please can he not feel
hungry, I prayed, only too aware of the cold apple pie above my head. Please
can he not think to open the— ‘What on earth!
Penelope!’
Harry nearly
jumped out of his skin.

‘I was
getting a bit of apple pie!’ I barked, voice croaking, hating myself for
minding about my knotted hair and deathly complexion in front of him.

‘You
were hiding!’

‘No! I
didn’t realise you were in the kitchen.’

‘You
little liar!’

I
squeezed out of my hiding place. ‘I thought you might be Charlotte. I didn’t
want to answer any questions about last night,’ I wailed. ‘I’ve hardly slept. I
thought I’d take the first train home.’

‘How
convenient.’

‘What
does that mean?’

‘Oh, I
don’t know. You’ve got your tickets; I suppose the job’s done.’

‘Well —
yes. I don’t think I could have given you a better performance,’ I snapped,
anger at being caught in the pantry making me sound more sarcastic than I had
intended.

‘Indeed.
Oscar-winning, I’d say. Rocky Dakota obviously thought so.

‘What’s
he got to do with anything?’

‘I
heard him asking you if he could take you out some time—’

‘So
what? Don’t I deserve some fun?’

Harry
considered for a moment. ‘Not really. Anyway, he’s all wrong for you. He’ll
spit you out when he gets bored.’

‘You
should know,’ I hissed.

‘What
do you mean?’

‘Marina.
She obviously works on that premise. Get bored, move on— Harry gave me a look
of pure loathing, grabbed the apple pie out of the pantry and walked towards
the door. ‘Enjoy Johnnie Ray,’ he said. ‘Oh, and Penelope?’

‘Yes?’
I said sulkily.

‘Your
blouse. It’s open.’

Horrified,
I looked down to see that Harry was quite right, my blouse had come open almost
to the waist, revealing nothing more than the black brassiere I had been
wearing under my dress the night before. I was too annoyed to think of anything
snappy to say, and Harry stalked off without looking back. Oh, how infuriating
it was that he
always
seemed to have the last word.

Two minutes later I was
clear of Aunt Clare’s and marching towards Paddington. I wanted very badly to
stay wretched and furious, it seemed the only sensible thing to be feeling — but
London sparkled after a light shower of rain and the first buds were appearing
on the cherry trees down Westbourne Grove and Whiteleys had just changed their
windows to display all kinds of delicious things — a lemonade set with ice
crushers, huge plastic beach bags in gay colours, and a portable Roberts radio.
You were kissed, kissed in the Ritz, I said to myself as I walked, and it made
me smile, because even if it had been staged for Marina Hamilton, and even if
neither of us was remotely in love with the other, I had still been kissed in
the Ritz. It was more than most people could wish for, I thought. Even if Harry
and I had rowed in the pantry and he had seen me in my underwear.

When I got home, I found
Magna empty (Mama had left me a note explaining that she had gone into town
with Mary to buy supplies for the weekend), so I rushed to the gramophone and
played my Johnnie Ray records over and over again. I flung him and Rocky around
in my mind — whom would I rather dance with (Rocky), whom would I rather sit up
all night talking poetry and dreams with (Johnnie) — yet all the time Harry’s
face rattled me more than either of them. My excitement at the thrill of being
kissed turned to irritation and a black cloud descended over me. How dare he, I
thought, over and over again, remembering the way he had kissed me, so slowly
and deliberately, in front of Marina. And how dare I have been so drunk and so
hopeless? He had gone too far, and I should have run from the room there and
then. Instead, I had allowed him to kiss me again in the cab on the way home,
then — horrors! —I recalled him kissing me again as he said goodnight to me
outside my bedroom door. I was a silly little girl, I decided. By the time Mama
arrived home, I had made up my mind that I should not talk to Harry ever again —
he had made me act like a fool and he hadn’t even the good sense to apologise.
Mama, being Mama, did not even ask me about the party until lunch, by which
time I was so tired I felt ready to collapse into my ham and eggs.

‘I
suppose you’ve had too much champagne, too little sleep and too much to think
about today,’ she said, hitting the nail on the head with unnerving accuracy.
Mama was amazing like that; I spent most of my teenage years assuming that she
knew nothing about me, and all of my twenties realising that she knew
everything.

‘It was
a late night,’ I admitted, then, knowing how she hated silences at meal times,
I ventured a little more information. ‘The Ritz was beautiful and the food was
heaven.’

‘Well
that goes without saying, darling. Really, can’t you tell me something I don’t
already know? Like whom you talked to, and whether there were any nice young
men present?’

Usually
I dreaded this line of questioning from my mother, but that afternoon the urge
to forget about Harry and talk about the dreaminess of Rocky was too strong.

‘There
was someone rather nice,’ I began falteringly. Mama looked up, startled.

‘Goodness,
Penelope,’ she said, astonished. ‘Who on earth is he?’

‘Oh,
some man,’ I said, blushing furiously and thoroughly uncertain that I should go
on.

‘So
much information, darling, I can’t keep up.’

‘He’s
very successful.’

‘Good.
What does he do?’

‘He works
in entertainment,’ I began haltingly. regretting my use of the word straight
away. ‘Hollywood films, that sort of thing.’

Mama
frowned and I could see her wrestling with the fact that he sounded rich but
worked in an industry she feared so was therefore, by definition, ultimately
unsatisfactory.

‘He’s
written a film that James Dean’s going to be in,’ I said. ‘Gracious. He must be
terribly pleased with himself. Where does he live?’

‘America
most of the time.’

‘I see.’
Mama’s lips tightened. ‘So he’s American?’

‘Yes.
Oh, but Mama, you’d think him
most
charming.’

‘How
old is he?’

‘Oh, I
couldn’t say. Perhaps forty?’

‘Forty?’

‘Y-yes.’

‘Has he
been married before? Did he lose a wife to some appropriate disease?’

‘N-no.’

‘Never
married,’ confirmed Mama. ‘Forty years old and never married. Well, it’s a very
good thing that you had the good sense to tell me about this gentleman,
Penelope. You
certainly
should not see him again.’

‘But
why, Mama?’

She put
down her fork and stretched out to me. ‘Take my hand, darling.’ She was well
aware that physical contact made disagreeing with her virtually impossible. I
took her hand in mine, feeling it small and hot and heavy with the exquisite
beauty of her ruby engagement ring.

‘There
are some things that I just know, aren’t there? Things that I have a bare
instinct about. The woman who worked for a while in the village shop, for
example — I was the only person for miles around who could see that she was no
good. Well, it’s the same here. I don’t trust this man, and I don’t think you
should, either.’

‘There’s
nothing wrong with him,’ I muttered, feeling tears pricking behind my eyelids.

‘Penelope,
he’s unmarried at forty. I’m afraid that says all we need to know. The fact
that he works in the films is another factor that can hardly be seen as
counting in his favour.’

‘But he’s
rich, Mama! I thought you wanted me to meet a rich man!’

‘Oh,
darling,’ said Mama sadly, ‘not an American.’

‘But he
only wanted to take me out for dinner,’ I said weakly. Loudly. and on cue, the
telephone bell sounded. Mama and I sat tight, awaiting Mary.

‘Telephone
for Miss Penelope.’

Mama’s
eyes flashed. ‘Was it a gentleman, Mary?’

‘It’s
Miss Charlotte, madam.’

Mama
sighed with relief. ‘Run along then, darling.’

Charlotte
could hardly get the words out fast enough. ‘It’s Marina!’ she gasped.

‘What
about her?’

‘She’s
called off the wedding! She turned up on the doorstep about an hour after
breakfast, still wearing last night’s dress, and smoking like mad. Well,
luckily for her, the aged aunt was out at the races, so I bundled her into the
house and gave her tea and crumpets — she ate the lot, the greedy pig; can’t
have been that distressed, I’d say — and she talked all about how silly she’d
been and how she realised last night after seeing you and Harry together that
she was making a terrible mistake and she didn’t really love George, and all
she wanted was to be with Harry for ever.

‘I don’t
believe you!’ I gasped, my heart hammering.

‘It’s
all true, honestly. And wait for the rest! An hour later, George arrived—’

‘He
didn’t!’

‘He
did! He was terribly controlled and beautifully dressed I might add, saying he
just wanted to talk to Marina and make her see sense. He was so jolly nice and
polite, I was quite ready to let him in, though Marina had eaten just about
everything so there wasn’t much to offer him anyway — but she’d made us promise
that if he appeared we were to pretend that we didn’t know where she was.

‘No!’

‘Yes,’
said Charlotte impatiently. ‘He left ten minutes later. I hid Marina, just in
case he decided to burst through the door like something out of the films.
Harry’s absolutely bewildered beyond belief,’ she went on. ‘He turned up half
an hour after she’d gone, heard the news and went into a sort of daze and says
that he won’t speak to Anyone At All about the situation, and if any of the
gossip columns call, we’re to say that he’s flown to Spain for a month.’

There
was a pause. My hands were shaking, I noticed. Actually, properly
shaking.

‘Goodness,’
I said slowly. ‘So the plan actually worked? She really was jealous of
me?’

‘You
looked sensational last night,’ said Charlotte matter-of-factly. ‘It would
have been virtually impossible for her not to be jealous. Marina was raving on
about your “bewitching smile” and how she nearly fell to the floor with rage
when Harry kissed you. I must say,
I
nearly fell to the floor after
that. It was so
utterly
Vanity Fair.’

I
giggled, feeling rather better all of a sudden. ‘Do you think so?’

‘Of
course.

There
was another pause.

‘Isn’t
Rocky Dakota wonderful?’ I said.

‘Dreamy.
But far too old for us, despite his beautiful suit. Still, we should be able to
sting him for a couple of decent dinners.’