WHAT HAVE I DONE? MARY LAY CURLED ON THE BED at Bryanston Court, her mind racing, trying to predict the repercussions of her intemperate action. Ernest must never suspect that she had switched the letters deliberately. Wallis was bound to be cross at first, but surely she would realise that the most sensible thing for all four of them was for Ernest and her to divorce? She must see that. There could be no turning back.
It was tempting to run and hide: perhaps flee to France to visit Aunt Minnie or sail back to the States and let Wallis and Ernest sort out this mess for themselves – but that would be the coward’s route. She had to stay and defend herself if necessary. She had to remind Ernest how much better a wife she would make than Wallis.
When he came home that evening, nothing was mentioned so it was clear the letter had not reached him in the afternoon post. Ernest had developed a taste for crime novels of late, and over dinner he recommended that Mary read the Hercule Poirot novels of Agatha Christie.
‘I have a formula for uncovering the murderer in the early chapters,’ he said. ‘It is usually a family member, whichever one is instantly ruled out of the enquiry because he or she has a rock-solid alibi.’
Mary was dubious. ‘I don’t like to read about violence and bloodshed. I’m too squeamish.’
‘There’s no violence,’ he laughed. ‘The stories are brainteasers. They possess no literary value but I find them relaxing.’
‘Perhaps you can recommend one in that case, and I’ll see if I can guess the murderer.’
The following morning, Mary was too anxious to eat breakfast. She felt sick whenever she thought of Wallis at Fort Belvedere opening her letter to Ernest and scanning the contents. Would she race straight back to Bryanston Court to confront her? Or wait until she had planned to return anyway?
Mary sat down to try and read the book Ernest had lent her, Murder on the Orient Express, but it did nothing to calm her nerves. Instead she began to rehearse the arguments she would use when Wallis got home, hoping against hope that she would understand, perhaps even be relieved that the decision had been made for her.
She had dozed off, lying on top of her bedcover, when she was woken by the sound of the front door banging and Wallis’s voice in the hall.
‘Where is she?’ she was asking the maid.
Mary sat up and adjusted her dress just as Wallis burst into her room, the letter in her hand.
‘What on earth is this?’ she shouted. ‘A love letter from you to Ernest? You make me laugh.’
Mary had to pretend shock. ‘But I wrote to thank you for the handbag . . .’ she said, her voice trailing off.
‘Yes, and you wrote to thank Ernest for taking you to the opera, and guess what?’ She threw the letter on the bed and Mary glanced at it then clasped a hand to her mouth.
‘Did you think I didn’t guess that you’re in love with my husband? Your eyes follow him round the room like some lovesick ingénue. It’s pathetic in a woman of forty.’
Mary was shaking, but she screwed up her courage to answer back. ‘You can’t blame us for having an affair when you spend all your time with the King, and treat poor Ernest with shocking disrespect.’
Wallis took a step forward and slapped Mary’s face with all her strength. Mary’s head snapped back and her eyes watered.
‘You’re actually having an affair, are you? You utter bitch!’ Wallis spat out the words. ‘I trusted you, even knowing how you felt about Ernest, because we’ve been through so much together. “Mary will never betray me,” I thought. What kind of fool was I?’
Mary pressed the palm of her hand against her cheek to ease the stinging sensation and tried to introduce a note of reason. ‘Wallie, this makes sense for all four of us. The King wants to marry you, and Ernest has told him he will divorce you, so why can’t Ernest and I be together? I thought you must have that in mind when you invited us to Windsor Castle for that peculiar foursome.’
Wallis’s face paled. ‘What do you mean, Ernest has told David he will divorce me? Don’t lie.’
‘They had dinner together back in February. Bernie Rickatson-Hatt was there too. The King said he could not take the throne without you by his side and Ernest said he would release you so long as the King promised to take care of you. Ask them if you don’t believe me.’
Wallis marched to the window. ‘How dare they!’ She twirled round. ‘And how dare you not tell me before now? I will never forgive you for this, Mary. Never.’
‘I wish you would calm down, then you’ll see this is for the best.’
‘Best for whom? For you and Ernest with your dirty little secret? How long has the affair been going on, as a matter of interest?’
Mary blushed.
‘No, don’t tell me.’ Wallis stared at her with contempt. ‘It was last summer when he was in New York, wasn’t it?’
Mary started to feel indignant. ‘Yes, while you were traipsing around the South of France with the Prince. All the American papers were reporting it. “Mrs Simpson danced a rumba with the Prince of Wales”: how do you think that made Ernest feel?’
Wallis slammed open the wardrobe door and began flinging Mary’s gowns onto the bed. Mary leapt to her feet.
‘What are you—’
‘I want you out of here. Take your things and leave. Now!’
She swept an arm along the dressing table, so Mary’s hairbrush, lipstick and powder compact crashed to the floor. Mary caught hold of her arm and for a moment it seemed they might start a physical fight, both of them trembling with emotion. Suddenly Mary felt defiant. Anger welled up from deep within: a long-held grudge over years of slights, years of being treated as the understudy, years of enduring Wallis’s fundamental selfishness.
‘You only ever think of yourself,’ she hissed. ‘Me, me, me.’
Wallis broke away from her grip. ‘Get out of my house. If you are not gone in five minutes, I will call the police.’ She swept from the room, and Mary heard her bedroom door slam.
There was nothing for it. She pulled out her trunk and began to throw her clothes in, any old how. She lifted the gowns from their hangers in one big armful and thrust them inside, not bothering about crushing them; piled cosmetics into her vanity case; collected her passport and books from a drawer. In not much more than five minutes she had packed everything she had arrived with. Then she called the maid to ask the doorman of the apartment block to come and carry her trunk and hail a taxicab. There was silence from behind Wallis’s door.
Mary glanced in the mirror and saw that her left cheek was puce, and there was a scratch by her eye where one of Wallis’s rings had caught her. No time to worry about that now.
As she hurried out of the flat, she noticed another huge bouquet of blush-pink roses sitting on the hall table. They had just been delivered, and the little envelope containing the card was still with them. On the spur of the moment, she grabbed it. Wallis had secrets; she was the mistress of subterfuge, and perhaps this card would prove it.
Down on the pavement, the porter was loading her belongings into a taxicab.
‘Where to, ma’am?’ the driver asked.
She had no idea. ‘Just drive,’ she said. ‘I’ll let you know when I decide.’
They headed down Edgware Road, past Marble Arch and into Park Lane. About halfway down, there was a new art deco hotel called the Dorchester. Mary had often admired it in passing, and now she asked the driver to pull into the forecourt while she went inside to enquire if they had a room. The lobby was very smart and she did not like to imagine how much the room would cost, but they had one available so she took it. A porter brought her trunk inside on his trolley and took it to a bedroom on the first floor.
‘Where can I make a telephone call?’ she asked.
The porter escorted her to the operator’s room and she gave the number of Ernest’s office, then was shown to a chair in a discreet booth in reception where she could take the call once it was connected.
‘I’ve done the stupidest thing,’ she told him when he came on the line, and she explained the ‘mix-up’ over the letters. ‘Wallis is hopping mad and has thrown me out of the apartment, so I’ve taken a room at the Dorchester for tonight.’
Ernest seemed to take it in his stride. ‘Yes, I received your note to her this morning. Don’t worry. She would have found out about us sooner or later. It’s probably best if you lie low for a while and I’ll try to make her see reason.’
Secretly Mary had hoped he would say ‘I’ll be right there’; might even have taken her for dinner that evening in the hotel restaurant. It was time for him to declare his hand. But he made no such offer.
‘I have another apology to make,’ she continued. ‘I had no idea Wallis didn’t know about your conversation with the King concerning her. I’m afraid I let it slip.’
Ernest sighed. ‘How did she take it?’
‘Not very well, as you can imagine.’
‘I’ll talk to her tonight – if she’s there – and call you from the office in the morning. What room number are you?’
Mary told him. He said goodbye in a businesslike fashion and then hung up, without a word of affection or comfort. Of course, he was in the office. Perhaps his colleagues could overhear.
She sat there a moment longer, feeling more alone than she had ever felt in her life. All her acquaintances in London were Wallis’s friends; all would take Wallis’s side. She would have to leave town before Wallis blackened her name. Ernest was kidding himself if he thought she would calm down. Mary had never seen her in such a rage.
Back in her room, she remembered the card she had snatched in the hallway. She dug it out of her handbag and opened it. See you in Berlin, it read, signed with the initial J. Had von Ribbentrop invited Wallis over there? Mary had been hoping for something incriminating, proof perhaps that Wallis was having an affair with him, but that wasn’t much to go on. She stuffed it back in her bag, then sat at the dressing table and began writing a letter to her sister Anne on Dorchester notepaper: I am on the outs with Wallis and will book a berth on the next sailing. May I visit you on my return?
Then she threw down the pen and burst into tears. Why should she leave London? Why should Wallis always get what she wanted? She remembered the way as a fifteen-year-old Wallis had swooped in and grabbed the elder and better-looking of the two Tabb brothers, then didn’t want him once she had him. That was her all over; she hadn’t changed.
Wallis didn’t love Ernest – she didn’t know the meaning of the word – but Mary did truly love him and knew she was good for him. I should stay and fight for him, she thought. It was scary to think of fighting with Wallis, but it was the right thing to do.
As soon as she made this decision, Mary felt stronger. Now she just needed to decide where she would stay. She had some money from her parents’ estate, and a small allowance from Jackie, but apartment rentals in London were bound to be expensive and she did not know how to go about looking for one. She would need Ernest’s help.
She made some notes on another sheet of hotel paper, figuring out how much she could afford to pay in rental, making a stab at the cost of electricity, a telephone line, one maid and the weekly groceries. When she got hungry, she ordered a club sandwich from room service, and asked them to bring her a whisky and soda as well.
Later in the evening, she rang for another large whisky.