When I got back to Mayfair, it was mid afternoon. I didn’t feel up to dealing with Alistair right away, so I went to a smoke shop on Regent Street and bought a pack of cigarettes with some of my meager funds. I’d only been smoking a few cigarettes a day, but being without a supply made me anxious. I couldn’t find anything menthol except expensive American brands, so I bought a pack of Players.
Alistair wasn’t a big fan of my smoking, so I went to Grosvener Square and sat on a bench where I lit up one of the unmentholated Players. It wasn’t completely satisfying, but it helped. I realized I was still a little stoned. The pigeons that gathered around me became fascinating. One pigeon, a little bigger and lighter than the others, with white wing tips, appeared to be the leader. I watched how they’d push each other out of the way, to be near him/her, although there was plenty of room for all.
Finally I mustered the energy to go back to the cottage, praying that Alistair would be in one of his good moods.
I rang the bell, even though I had a key now, because he tended to get annoyed if I walked in on him without warning. He answered the door looking strange—not angry—but deeply concerned. This was a new mood I hadn’t seen before.
“There you are. Thank god. I’ve been so worried.” He enveloped me in a fierce hug. “Where the hell have you been?”
I hadn’t mentioned the Brontës presence in London before this, so I knew an explanation might be awkward since they had once been his friends. I paused a moment.
Before I could come up with the words, he pushed me away with angry force. “You’ve been smoking dope! I can smell it on you. You’ve been off somewhere taking drugs, haven’t you? God. Why did I think you were different? You’re just another druggy hippie.”
His eyes moistened with sudden tears. “Does a man have to blow himself up to be interesting to you?”
I felt like crying, too, but I kept myself under control. I’d learned from my father’s temper tantrums that competing for featured crybaby status always makes things worse. Alistair had never brought up Billy Bradford, so I’d assumed he didn’t know I had any connection with last spring’s Philadelphia tragedy. The thought of it still made me unbearably sad.
But I ignored the dig, faked a smile and asked Alistair if he’d like to join me in the kitchen for some coffee, because I had a great story to tell him. I gave him a kiss—which he accepted like a petulant little boy allowing his mother a peck. After I put on the kettle, I managed to calm him down enough to tell the story of my visit to the Brontës. I played it for comedy, and by the time I got to the dead mouse, we were both laughing.
I fixed us some crumpets and jam to go with our coffee and asked how his day had gone. He told me one of his tales of visiting some country house where he photographed Dame Mary Somebody’s garden, which he described in some detail. He ended by saying he’d heard some upsetting news, but when I politely encouraged him to elaborate, he said he didn’t want to talk about it.
I nodded and chomped into my crumpet. He often started stories and stopped them just as they were getting interesting, so I’d learn to suppress my curiosity.
He didn’t touch his plate. Instead he stared at me as I ate.
It felt creepy, so I swallowed quickly.
“Is something wrong? Would you like me to make you one with a different kind of jam? This is blackcurrant, but I think there’s still some marmalade.”
“It’s perfectly fine, I’m sure. But I’m not under the influence of drugs, so I don’t have to inhale my food like a ravenous beast.”
“Sorry. I haven’t eaten since morning.” I tried to keep my tone light, in spite of the implied insult. “There was nothing to eat at the Brontës’ flat. Besides. I prefer my food without the flavor of deceased mouse, thank you very much.”
He kept staring.
I kept eating.
He gave a loud sigh. “You’re going to gain all that weight back, you know. If you do, don’t expect to see me again. I can’t take you to meet my mother if you look like a side of pork. It’s bad enough you have no money.”
He pushed his plate away and stood.
I kept chewing. This was the meanest he’d been since I got to London. Also his first mention of the Gorgon. I wondered if his upsetting news related to her.
But I wasn’t going to find out. He walked toward the front door and paused with his hand on the knob. I suppose he expected me to say something, but I had no idea what. I wasn’t going to apologize for eating crumpets.
After one more dramatic pause, he opened the door and, without looking back, walked outside, letting the door slam behind him.
I finished my last bite, although swallowing was tough. My throat felt choked and dry, the way it used to when Dad pulled one of his dramas. I thought of eating Alistair’s crumpet, but it looked icky now. The butter had started to coagulate in the little nooks and crannies and the blackcurrants looked like mutant fish eggs.
But there was no point in letting his temper tantrum get me down. I reminded myself there were worse things than being left alone in a lovely Mayfair cottage. It was full of books and magazines, and there was a television in the front room. We hadn’t even turned it on, since Alistair hated television.
So I went to the front room and turned the knob on the TV. A picture appeared. Something called Monty Python’s Flying Circus. I settled into an easy chair and laughed myself silly. I kept watching the BBC until I got sleepy and crawled off to bed.
When I woke in the morning, I was still alone.
Over breakfast, I wondered if I should have pressed Alistair to tell me about the upsetting news he’d heard while photographing Dame Whoever’s garden, and if that would have kept him from stomping out. But I knew questioning him usually made him angry, so I wasn’t going to beat myself up about it.
It was a fine, sunny day, with only a few puffy clouds on the horizon, so I decided to walk across Green Park to Buckingham Palace to watch the changing of the guard, something so touristy Alistair considered it beneath him. I’d worry about what to do after I’d had my outing. Either 1) Alistair would be back, hopefully with the drama out of his system, or 2) I’d have some more time alone in the cottage with the BBC, or 3) He would kick me out on the street for the crime of eating crumpets, which would make the Brontës and Grayson Bell look sane and attractive by comparison.
Clouds started to thicken while I walked, but the air was balmy, so I enjoyed myself. When I got to the Palace, I joined a cluster of tourists, dominated by a bus load of Americans, who complained loudly about the lack of good coffee in their hotel. One of the men told me the guard would be changing in fifteen minutes and he couldn’t wait until it was over so he could get back to the hotel and check the baseball scores.
“This better be more interesting than London Bridge,” he said. “When we got there, it was just a big construction site. You know where the real bridge is? Lake Havasu, for god’s sake. Arizona. And if we’d gone to Arizona, I could be playing golf.”
The sky darkened while we waited, but finally we got to see the stiff, toy-soldier guards in their big, silly hats perform the honored ritual. A cold wind came up as I walked back to through the park, and by the time I was about four blocks from St. John’s Mews, the sky opened in a downpour. I still wasn’t used to the capricious English weather, so I hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella. I was soaked to the skin by the time I got back to the cottage.
I unlocked the door instead of ringing the bell. I hoped Alistair wasn’t home. Another scene would be so exhausting. I wanted to get dry and warm and curl up by the fire in peace.
But peace didn’t seem to be on the agenda. As soon as I stepped inside, I saw a strange woman standing in the doorway to the kitchen.
A very startled woman.
She was so tiny in person it took a minute to recognize her, but the face and hair were unmistakable. This was the woman on the billboard in Piccadilly Circus: Delia Kent.
Staring at me in fury.
I sputtered something like “Oh, my god. You’re Delia Kent. You’re real…”
She stepped back into the kitchen and came back waving the bread knife I’d left on the table.
“Yes. I am Delia Kent. And this is my fucking house. How did you get the sodding key?”
My face burned as I realized Alistair must have been squatting here after all. And I’d been squatting with him. Breaking and entering. And god knew what else.
“Please don’t stab me. It isn’t very sharp, so it would just make a mess,” I said.
Delia took a step toward me, holding the knife aloft, like a character in an Alfred Hitchcock movie.
“You hippies think you can just take what you want. Get out!”
From outside came a clap of thunder. Rain pounded the window. I did not want to go out there. My words spilled out in confused glumps as I tried to make her understand.
“My, um, boyfriend invited me to stay. I thought it was his place. We knew each other in college. He said he was taking photographs. Of English country houses. There was going to be a piece in the Times magazine…Alistair knows this baroness….”
When I said it out loud, it sounded ridiculous. How could I have believed such an improbable story?
But Delia lowered the knife as soon as I mentioned Alistair. She leaned against the door jam.
“Alistair is your boyfriend? Really? You mean it’s not bollocks?”
I had no idea how to respond to this, but she knew Alistair’s name. I took that to be a good sign.
“You…you’re the Conway girl?” she said, looking me up and down. “The Conway Industries heiress?”
I nodded. I supposed I would inherit something of the Conway fortune. Uncle Con said I was in Grandfather’s will, even though my father had been cut off, and the money was in some sort of trust.
“But you’re so…bedraggled.”
Delia startled me with a big laugh.
You’re fucking real! I thought he made you up! Oh, shit, I’m sorry.”
She put down the knife and reached for my hand and shook it.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Conway. Alistair told me he had a girlfriend who was an American heiress, but his grasp of the truth is often a bit slithery, isn’t it? I’d heard some hippies had been breaking in…. I apologize for the dramatics.”
She put down the knife. “I’m afraid I thought the whole heiress thing was one of his fairy tales.”
I gave a nervous giggle. “Me too. I didn’t believe him for a minute when he said the house belonged to a movie star.”
I followed her into the kitchen.
“I figured maybe he’d seen your picture on a billboard and made up a story. I knew this wasn’t the home of a twenty-three year old bachelor, but I thought maybe it belonged to his mother.”
Delia filled the kettle. “The Gorgon? Good god, no. That cow buggered off to America. Long ago. Left him with a pile of bills he’s still paying off. That’s why I offered to help him out by letting him stay in this cottage. I don’t use it except when I’m working in the West End.”
She put the kettle on the stove and lit the gas.
“You look as if you could use a nice cup of tea. You’re soaked. Beastly weather.”
I stood by the table, staring at Alistair’s crumpet, which sat where he’d left it, dry and nasty-looking. Somehow I hadn’t got around to tossing it.
“Is Alistair all right? I haven’t heard a word from him.”
Delia turned and looked into my face as if she were searching for some dark truth. She grabbed both my hands with sudden intensity.
“My dear, I think you’d better sit down. The news isn’t good.”
I sank into the chair.
“What do you mean? Is he hurt?”
“Just some scrapes and bruises. He’s still in hospital, but the doctors say he’ll be fine. But it’s the police—they say there may be charges for the assault.”
“The police?”
My head roared. I knew Alistair bent the law occasionally, but it was a shock to hear he was going to be arrested. Maybe he’d been stealing in order to buy me all those nice things. But it was shocking to hear he’d resorted to violence.
“He assaulted a policeman?”
“Not a policeman, thank god. He did give a few whacks at the night watchman who tried to stop him. But it could have been so much worse. They had guards patrolling the site because there are no barriers on that part of the bridge yet. It’s all under construction. Other people have had the same thought Alistair did.”
“Bridge? Alistair tried to steal a bridge?”
I started to wonder if I was hallucinating from some delayed reaction to that joint.
“Oh, no sweetie.” Delia looked at me as if I were slightly dim. “He tried to jump. From the new London Bridge. It was in the Times this morning. I thought you would have…oh, you poor dear.”
She put a sisterly arm around me.
All I could do was shiver as thunder banged outside.