Two Loves (22 page)

‘I'm quite prepared to be patient. But what if … what if…'

‘What if he's not the person you've dreamed of all these years? Is that what you mean?'

‘Something like that, yes.'

‘Well, when he's fully recovered you'll have plenty of time to get to know him properly. You haven't made any commitment to him, have you? If he's not the right person you'll find that out.'

‘But Dora, if he's not the right person, then nothing in my life makes any sort of sense.'

‘I don't think romantic love ever makes too much sense, darling. But perhaps all the anguish we suffer for it makes us appreciate getting over it.'

‘That's very cynical, Dora. And very sad.'

‘Not sad. I only meant that the best was yet to come.'

‘You mean mature love? Companionship and slippers by the fire?'

‘And suppers in bed, expensive wines and the newest videos. Trips abroad in some degree of comfort. Restaurant meals and concerts. Not too bad, darling.'

‘Not too bad,' Rosamund agreed. Not too bad … But not what she wanted.

Chapter Nineteen

The next morning found Rosamund again trying to decide between the two alternatives Molly had presented to her. Her sympathies were with Erica who had loved and lost, but she couldn't forget the almost demonic look on Molly's face as she'd said, ‘I'm determined that Underhill shall not publish Anthony's poems nor benefit from them.' What was she plotting?

On their previous meeting Rosamund had thought that Molly's antagonism towards Erica was beginning to soften. When she'd mentioned her poverty, the lack of heating in her unmodernised, inconvenient flat, she'd seemed almost concerned. Had something happened since? Was it something to do with Alex? Alex was probably desperate for money, but how would he benefit from the suppression of Erica's book? Unless he was trying to cut in with a book of his own, his father as hero, stepping in to save his son's marriage by making an honest woman of the girl his son had made pregnant?

She felt a sweat break out over her body. Anthony was considered a major poet, some said the most original voice of the twentieth century after Eliot and Yeats, and now, less than ten years after his death, publishers, serious newspapers and presumably the public seemed much more interested in the complexities and irregularities of his life than in his life's work.

At least Erica had eighteen very beautiful poems to contribute, poems which Anthony himself had wanted published, though not for another ten years. Whereas anything Alex had to add would be less than the truth. Anthony had married her because he loved her, or at least loved her company, loved having her with him. It wasn't to save Alex's marriage, not even primarily for that. And they'd been happy together. That's what people didn't want to believe. When she was pregnant he'd looked after her so tenderly, shopped and cooked for her, though she was young and healthy and perfectly able to manage everything for herself. He had really cherished her, as in the marriage service. She became tearful, remembering all his kindness to her.

And she'd always told Joss about her happiness with Anthony, how good he'd been to her, so it would be really painful to have to tell him that he was not actually his father. How would it affect him?

During the lunch-hour she phoned the school where Thomas taught. ‘Thomas? Can you call round after school?'

There was a long pause. ‘I can't come immediately after school, but I'll come as soon as I can. What's the matter?'

‘Oh Thomas, I've got something on my mind which I want your advice about. Why can't you come straight after school?'

Another pause. ‘Because I have to get back to take over from Mary-Louise. Jim's quite difficult in the afternoon and she's at the end of her tether by four-thirty.'

‘I thought she was supposed to be a trained nanny.'

‘Well, she is. But she's only twenty-four. Very young to have sole care of a three-month-old baby. And I don't want to lose her.'

‘You won't lose her, don't worry. She does nothing much but lie about in the sun all day, according to my mother.'

‘Rosamund, what's the matter with you? You don't seem yourself today.'

‘I don't like to think of this girl twisting you round her little finger.'

‘Every woman in my life seems to do that.'

‘Oh, she's one of the women in your life now, is she?'

‘Well, she's in my life at the moment. And, yes, she's certainly a woman.'

‘Oh, certainly.'

‘Listen, I'll come up as soon as I can. I enjoyed the party yesterday, by the way.'

*   *   *

It was another hot day, the hills heavy with the weight of summer. Dora had left at seven, and after Rosamund had got Harry and Joss off to school, she'd done very little but brood.

She was having her lunch – bread and cheese – on the patio when she heard someone trying to get in through the side-gate, which she kept bolted.

It was Mary-Louise with Jim in a sling on her back. ‘Rosamund? I was walking up the hill so I thought I'd call. I thought it was time we met.'

Mary-Louise was the last person Rosamund wanted to see – she already felt hostile towards her – but she tried not to show it. ‘Would you like some bread and cheese? Some cider?'

‘No, thank you. I've already eaten. I'd like some water, though, if that's all right.'

‘Of course.'

Mary-Louise was even more attractive than Rosamund had expected. Fair hair tied back in a ponytail, pale brown eyes, a golden tan, long legs. She unstrapped the baby and laid him on the grass. He started to whimper but she said, ‘No, Jim. Go to sleep, please.' At which he immediately stopped crying and closed his eyes. Was this the person who needed Thomas's help at four-thirty every day?

Rosamund fetched her a half-pint tankard of water which she drank in one long swallow.

‘How are you settling down with the Woodisons?'

‘We're getting used to one another.'

‘Are you finding Stephen and Martin difficult?'

‘Of course. Teenagers are always difficult and they've had a traumatic time.'

She didn't seem to want to say anything else. Her eyes were cool and dismissive. She sat upright in the garden chair, her enormously long legs thrust straight out in front of her.

‘Harry is a sweet boy,' Rosamund said, somehow feeling a need to keep the conversation going.

‘No, Harry's not sweet. Not at all.' She frowned at some unsweet memory of Harry.

Rosamund sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. She decided not to attempt any further small talk. Mary-Louise seemed neither to want nor merit it. She had taken off her T-shirt and was now sunbathing, and would obviously sit there, languid and topless, until she decided to move on. Rosamund tried to calm down, made herself think of waves breaking against rocks; it sometimes helped. Am I jealous? she asked herself. Is that why I'm feeling so irritated by this girl? She made herself think of rock pools and sea gulls and quiet seas.

She was almost asleep when Mary-Louise next spoke. ‘I've been reading Eliza's diary,' she said.

Rosamund was so taken aback that she failed to say anything. How bizarre to confess to reading another person's diary. She couldn't absolutely swear that she herself wouldn't have, if she'd come across it, but she'd certainly have kept quiet about it. Did that make it better or worse?

‘She mentioned your affair with Thomas.'

Rosamund ground her teeth in another effort to remain calm. ‘I don't want to hear whatever it is you've come here to tell me,' she said quietly. ‘And perhaps you should go now. You've had a drink and a rest.'

‘She wrote that she'd had it out with you, but that you'd refused to give him up.'

Rosamund wanted to shriek out her denial of this account, but managed to go on breathing evenly and saying nothing. She sat watching the cumulus clouds on the horizon, their shifting opalescent shapes. A beautiful summer sky.

‘Unfortunately Martin has read it as well. It was in his room that I found it.'

‘Please go now. If I were you I should discuss all this with Thomas.' She looked at Jim who was practising little smiles as he slept.

‘I have discussed it with Thomas.'

‘Then why are you bothering me about it?'

Mary-Louise seemed to give this question due consideration. ‘I was annoyed that you didn't ask me to your party last night.'

Rosamund couldn't help but admire the honesty of that admission. It was so childish and well … even likeable. She almost smiled.

‘I need to work now,' she said, trying to soften her earlier peremptory request that she should leave.

‘What work do you do?'

‘I paint.'

‘An artist! No one told me. Can I see some of your paintings?'

Again the childlike response which left Rosamund totally bemused. Perhaps the girl was not so much malicious as simple-minded.

‘Another time,' she said. ‘I'll show them to you another time.' When I'm feeling less misjudged and tormented, she thought.

Mary-Louise put her T-shirt back on, packed Jim into the sling and hoisted him onto her back. Again he started to cry, but again stopped when commanded to do so.

*   *   *

And Rosamund, still disturbed and enraged by the encounter, marched into the studio, pulled out a large sheet of paper and some charcoal and tried to work out her anger on a drawing; a drawing of a tall, bare-legged young woman striding up a hill, a pack on her back. She worked for almost two hours and then stood back, her hand to her mouth, astonished to find that it was good, very good, the best thing she'd done in years. She had a moment's exquisite pleasure. She'd forgotten how wonderful success felt. A bit like sex; getting it right.

She thought about Thomas; how he'd always seemed afraid to be too passionate, to let himself go. Was it because he was always conscious of being a married man, and not wanting to involve her too fully? He was a kind, thoughtful man. She hoped he wouldn't be ensnared by Mary-Louise, her childlike ways and her long legs.

She was suddenly furious again, remembering what Eliza had written in her diary. Was she already planning suicide when she wrote it, and wanting to leave behind as much trouble as possible? Or had her mind really flipped, so that all her fervent promises to give Thomas up had meant nothing to her?

Why had she cared so much about losing her lousy job? Was it the money that mattered so much or the prestige of being the only woman director in the company? Had she had so little satisfaction in her life that those things had become all-important? She'd had a good-natured handsome husband who loved her. Wasn't that something to chalk up? Three babies before going back to work. Hadn't she felt any joy or fulfilment at being a mother? Rosamund hadn't known her well, but she'd always seemed proud of her sons, had always dressed them in clothes which, if a little too fashionable, seemed lovingly chosen. They'd had expensive gifts lavished on them and yet were relatively unspoilt. She'd had children to be proud of, but she'd wanted out.

And Martin, having read certain extracts from her diary, written either out of spite or in mental torment, thought she, Rosamund, was responsible for his mother's suicide.

Well, perhaps blaming her made it easier for him to accept it. Rosamund found that she didn't care too much what Martin and Stephen thought of her. Just so long as they didn't infect Joss with their attitude.

The garden was beautiful. For a time she watched a butterfly, a meadow brown, dancing its way over the pinks. The temperature was in the high seventies again. Perhaps things didn't matter quite as much as they seemed to.

*   *   *

When Thomas called by, soon after five, he apologised for Mary-Louise's visit. ‘I meant to warn you yesterday about the diary turning up, but I didn't manage to speak to you alone. She doesn't truly believe the things Eliza wrote. I told her what had really happened and she seemed to accept it. I can't think what made her come up here today.'

‘It was because I didn't invite her to the party yesterday.'

They looked at each other carefully. ‘Is she a bit unhinged?' Rosamund asked. ‘Or is she in love with you?'

‘Don't be silly.'

‘It's not silly. Why shouldn't she be? But just be careful, that's all. She strikes me as a bit dangerous. Beautiful but dangerous.'

‘Dangerous? I'll bear it in mind. Is that what you wanted to see me about?'

‘No, I phoned you before she arrived. Mary-Louise is yet another problem. And that bloody diary. And Martin. But it was something else I rang about.' She told him then about Molly's visit, about her threat concerning Alex. ‘You knew that Alex was Joss's father, didn't you? I'd already told you that.'

‘Yes. And I remember advising you then to tell Joss the truth. And the sooner the better. I thought even then that Alex might break his promise to leave you alone.'

‘Well, I should have listened to you. I certainly don't know what to do now. I hate the thought of letting Erica down. She seems to have had a pretty rotten life, and though she says she wants to publish her memoirs for the money she'll get – and I admit she's hard up – I think that deep down there's a much more important reason. She was Anthony's mistress for several years, I honestly believe the love of his life, so if she publishes the poems, claims them for herself, she'll achieve a certain immortality, won't she? Do you think I'm being too romantic? Erica is old, she doesn't strike me as very strong, she could die at any moment, and I think she should have this boost to her ego, this fulfilment.'

‘You're absolutely right. So that's it – you haven't any choice. You can't deny her the right to her immortality because Molly's blackmailing you. You must disregard Molly.'