We'll Meet Again (8 page)

He did say on another occasion: “Still not helping Jacques with his work?”

“No.”

“He just paints all the time, does he?”

“He is out a good deal.”

“Traveling around Paris?”

“Yes, and sometimes farther afield.”

“And never takes you with him?”

“No. He has not done so.”

“It would be very pleasant for you to see a little of France.”

“Very pleasant,” I said. I went on: “My friends, the Baileys—those English people I met in the bookshop … do you remember?”

He nodded. He had been very interested in them at first and asked a lot of questions about them, and then seemed to forget them.

I went on: “They are always talking about Hitler. They think there will be war.”

“My dear, everyone in Paris thinks there will be war.”

“And you?”

He lifted his shoulders and rocked to and fro as though to say he was not sure. It could go any way.

“If it comes to that, the Baileys will go back to England at once.”

“And you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t see how I could.”

“It would be better for you. You should consider it.”

“I don’t see how I could, after what happened.”

“Nevertheless …” he murmured.

I saw the Baileys frequently at that time. I told Jacques about them and he had not seemed very pleased.

“But they are very friendly people,” I said. “They take a parental interest in me and I have often been to their apartment.”

Rather as Georges Mansard had done, he asked questions about them and did not find them very interesting. When I said that, as I had visited them many times, I thought I should return the hospitality, he shook his head rather irritably and said, “We don’t want them here. They sound very boring.”

I supposed they would be to him, but I felt I owed Janet Bailey some explanation, and one day, over a cup of tea, I blurted out the whole story to her. I went right back to the beginning, the meeting in Germany with Dermot, our whirlwind romance and marriage, the birth of Tristan, and the realization that I could endure it no more.

She listened intently as I did so and I saw her expressions of bewilderment, horror, and amazement that I could abandon my baby son.

It was a long time before she spoke.

Then she turned to me. “You poor child,” she said. “For that is all you are. A child … just like Marian. I’d say to her, ‘Don’t touch the stove, dear.’ That was when she was three years old. ‘If you do, you’ll burn your fingers.’ Then, as soon as my back’s turned, out come her little fingers. A nasty burn, but, as I said to Geoff, ‘It’s experience. That will teach her better than anything.’”

“I’m afraid my experience is more than a burned finger.”

“I think you should go home. You don’t want to stay with this Frenchman, do you?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s good enough. If you don’t know, you’d better get away and the sooner the better. That sister of yours … she seems a sensible sort.”

“I must show you a picture of her. It’s a miniature. I couldn’t leave it behind when I went.”

“Why don’t you write to her?”

“She thinks I’m dead.”

“Yes, it is a mess, isn’t it? Oh, Dorabella, how could you!”

“I don’t know. Looking back I don’t understand how I could.”

“It was a heartless thing to do,” said Mrs. Bailey slowly.

I stared ahead and felt the tears in my eyes.

Suddenly she put her arms around me.

“I think you have been rather a spoiled baby,” she said. “But babies grow up. I think you should … now, quickly. It’s not right for you to be here. What is the artist of yours like?”

“He is good looking … very worldly … very sophisticated.”

She nodded. “I know. It’s a pity you couldn’t see things a bit more clearly. I know the sort. And when it’s over, what shall you do?”

“I just don’t know.”

“There’s a way out. You could go back and tell your people all about it. They’ll be shocked … but I reckon they’ll be so glad to have you back that they’ll forgive you.”

“I don’t know if I could face it.”

“I’ve got a daughter of my own. I know how mothers feel. I know how Geoff and I would be if it were Marian in this mess. Not that she would be. She’s happily married with two of the sweetest little things you ever saw—a girl and a boy. But if it were us, we’d be saying, ‘Give us back our daughter and never mind the rest.’ Look here, my dear, do you mind if I talk this over with Geoff?”

“No,” I said. I felt as though I were drowning and they wanted to help me at all cost.

After that I saw them very often and we always discussed my position.

Geoffrey was of Janet’s opinion. Some means must be found of getting me home.

In the midst of all this I met Mimi.

It was one afternoon. I had been visiting the Baileys. I had come home a little earlier than usual. I sat down in the
salon,
thinking over my conversation with Janet. She had been telling me that the company had suggested that, because of the way things were going in Europe, it might be necessary for their staff in Paris to make a hasty exit.

“It is looking more and more grim,” she said. “Things are really working up to a climax. Geoff says that it was inevitable after Hitler had taken Czechoslovakia. That really was the last straw. And now, all this talk of
Lebensraum
and his designs on Poland … I know he says he has no quarrel with Britain … unprepared as we are, Geoff thinks that if he sets foot in Poland we shall declare war.”

I have to confess that my own affairs concerned me so much that I had little thought to spare for those of Europe, which indicated how foolish I was, for Europe’s troubles were those of us all.

However, that day I was early coming back, and as I sat in the
salon
the door opened and a woman, whom I had never seen before, walked into the room with the casual air of one who is very familiar with her surroundings.

She was attired in a
peignoir
merely, and her feet were bare. For a moment I thought I must be in the wrong house. Her long black hair hung loose; she had almond-shaped dark eyes, a pert
retroussé
nose with a short upper lip. She was tall and I could detect beneath her
peignoir
her full bosom and narrow hips. She was very attractive.

I had risen to my feet in amazement and then, immediately behind her, I saw Jacques.

He said casually: “Hello. You are back then. This is Mimi.”

“Mimi?” I said.

“Mimi the model,” she said. She had a very strong French accent.

“I am Dorabella,” I stammered.

Her gaze flickered over me. I returned it, summing her up as coolly as she did me.

Then I said to myself: But it is natural that an artist’s model should be in an artist’s studio in a state of undress since she would have been posing for him.

“Dorabella has come from England,” said Jacques.

He went to the cabinet and poured out wine.

I felt bewildered. I was asking myself what relationship there was between Jacques and Mimi. I really knew. But Jacques did not seem in the least embarrassed. Then I supposed he would not. That worldliness which I had once so much admired was obvious, but now I was less enchanted by it.

I tried to appear as nonchalant as they were.

“Mimi,” I said lightly. “‘They call me Mimi, but my name is Lucia.’”

Mimi looked puzzled and Jacques said:
“La Bohème.”

I went on. “I am Dorabella from
Così fan tutte,
and my sister is Violetta from
La Traviata.
You see, my mother was very interested in opera.”

Mimi nodded. “It is amusing, yes.”

“Very,” said Jacques coolly, implying that it was not in the least so.

We sat there sipping our wine; they talked in French too rapid for me to follow all the time. I caught names of various people, some of whom I had met, but I could not really get the gist of their conversation. Once or twice they turned to me and said something in English.

I finished the wine, set down my glass, and said I had something to do.

I guessed the relationship between them, and I was not quite sure how I felt about his infidelity. Being myself, my first consideration was what effect it would have on me.

What a position I was in! Here was I, alone in a strange country, having left my own in a manner which would make it difficult for me to return. We were on the brink of war. The man whom, in my absurd dreaming, I had imagined I would be with forever, had made it clear that he had never intended our liaison to be anything but a passing one.

What a fool I had been! Never in my worthless life had I been in such danger. In every other petty escapade my sister had been at hand to rescue me. Now she was mourning me for dead.

What should I do? Where should I turn?

As usual, one side of me sought to placate the other. She is only a model. Artists have their models. They are casual in their behavior.

Casual indeed … in their love affairs, slipping from one to the next, and the last one is as dead as the first one they ever had. This was the bohemian life which I had been so eager to sample. Oh, if only I could go back! But no … “The moving finger writes …” Well, it had written and where now? Oh, Violetta, why are you not here with me?

I must be careful. I must work out what I should do. Was I going to leave Jacques before he told me to go? Where could I go to? How? Return to Caddington? Face Violetta, my parents? It was the only way.

They loved me. They would be happy to have me back. But how could I explain? And yet… what else?

Think, I told myself. Don’t rush into something as you usually do—as you did into this. You have to do something. You can’t go on here. This is over … for him and for you. Thank your stars you are not in love with him any more than he is with you.

I would speak to him. I would ask him exactly what his relationship with Mimi was. How many others were there? I would be calm, practical. I must be.

I sat in the bedroom I shared with him. I heard footsteps in the attic above. I thought, when she left I would speak to him.

I waited and after some time I heard the front door shut.

I would go to the
salon
and confront him. But when I arrived the
salon
was empty. I went up to the studio. He was not there and I realized he had left with Mimi. I felt uncertain. Waiting had always been trying for me. I wanted to strike quickly. I wanted to be on my way. Where to? That was the question.

I rehearsed what I would say to him. I was ready and waiting, but still he did not come back.

He did not return that night. Was he with Mimi? It seemed possible. Perhaps there was someone else. But surely he was staying away to show he cared nothing for my feelings.

It was early afternoon of the next day when he came into the house.

I waited for him in the
salon.
When he came I said with the utmost restraint, tinged only slightly with sarcasm, “You have had a pleasant time?”

“Very, thank you.”

“With Mimi, the model?”

“Is that your affair?”

“I imagine it is yours.”

He lifted his shoulders and smiled at me benignly.

“Are you telling me she is your mistress?”

“I did not speak of it,” he said.

“Listen, Jacques …”

He continued to smile. “I listen,” he said.

“You can’t expect me to accept this.”

He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

This was maddening. He was behaving as though it were perfectly natural for me to find him in the company of a semi-clad woman and then go off to spend the night with her. I could be calm no longer.

“This is unacceptable!” I cried.

“Unacceptable?” He repeated the word as though puzzled. “Why so?”

“How dare you treat me like this?”

“Treat? What is this treat?”

He was seeking refuge behind an imperfect knowledge of the language. I had seen him do this before. But I knew he understood.

“I left home,” I said, “to come here … and now …”

“You left your home because you no longer wanted to stay there.”

“I gave up everything … for you.”

“You are being very … provincial.”

“And you are so worldly, so sophisticated.”

“I thought you had grown up, too.”

“How can you do this … right under my nose?”

“Your nose?” he said, puzzled again.

“You know exactly what I mean. You make no secret of what is going on.”

“Secret? What is this secret?”

“She is your mistress.”

“So?”

I could not go on. I would burst into recriminations if I did, and that would not help me.

“I hate you,” I said.

He lifted his shoulders and regarded me with that benevolent tolerance an adult might show towards a recalcitrant child.

I could bear no more. I ran out of the room, took a coat and left the house.

There was only one place I could go. Janet Bailey had said: “You know where we are, dear. You can always come to us and we shall be glad to see you.”

I was so relieved to find she was at home.

“I am so glad you came,” she said at once. “Geoff and I are getting ready to leave.”

I stared at her in dismay. This was another blow. What should I do now?

“Come in,” she went on. “And I’ll tell you all about it.”

I sat down in a daze.

“Cup of tea?” she asked.

“Tell me about your going first,” I said.

“It’s on company advice … well, orders, more like. It’s the way things are going. They’re sure there’ll be war. They think it’s better for us to get home. All the English staff will be leaving and the office will be run by French employees. Heaven knows what will happen! Anyway, we’ll be leaving.”

“When?” I stammered.

“In a few days. Just time to get ourselves together.”

“Oh,” I said blankly. Then she noticed something was wrong.

“What is it?” she said, and I blurted out what had happened.

“You can’t stay with him!”

“No … but what can I do?”

“You’ll have to go home. Why not come with us? We’ll talk to Geoff about it. He should be home in a couple of hours. Things are in a whirl at the office. They’re all saying Hitler won’t stop at Poland and then the balloon will go up. It will be a stampede getting back once it’s started.”