Fran met her estranged husband in the lounge of the Grand Hotel, which was fashionably appointed with cane furniture and potted palms, but presently almost deserted. She was wearing the same brown coat and borrowed hat she had worn to the Finneys’ wedding and, having left her coat with the cloakroom attendant, she was again conscious of the slight dowdiness of the brown polka-dot frock. Dancing with Tom had made her forget the frock. Looking down at it now reminded her of Tom dancing the Charleston and she smiled in spite of herself.
Michael was late, so she ordered a pink gin while she waited for him. One or two of the hotel guests passing through on their way to the dining room glanced at her a little curiously as they went by, and she also attracted a moderate degree of interest from the bellboy. It was unusual to see a woman sitting drinking alone. Where was her husband? Her friends? Fran stared at the reflection of the room, superimposed against the darkness in the glass of the hotel window, while she wished that Michael would hurry up.
She was just trying to decide whether, had it been daylight, the room would have enjoyed a view of Morecambe Bay or the golf course, when she saw his familiar figure appear in the reflection and turned her head as he approached.
‘Hello, Fran, old girl.’ His voice was falsely hearty. As he bent to kiss her cheek, she noted the paisley-patterned neck tie and caught a glimpse of some unfamiliar cufflinks. All chosen for him by Winnie-the-Ninny, no doubt. He had never worn anything so fancy when he had been living with her.
‘Hello, Michael.’
A waiter appeared at their side before they had time to say anything more.
‘I’ll have what the lady’s having,’ Michael told him.
The lady! Fran saw the expression of curiosity on the man’s face as he turned away. Why on earth couldn’t Michael have dignified the situation by saying ‘my wife’? Which was still technically correct and would at least have avoided the waiter tipping off the clerk on the reception desk that they were not a married couple, just in case they attempted to book a room.
‘Now then, Fran, what can I do for you?’
‘I think it is more a question of what I can do for you,’ Fran said, trying to stay cool and not get cross. She lowered her voice, even though there was no one within earshot. ‘I understand that Winnie is …’ She hesitated, remembering her mother’s unkind words about her own failure to produce a child. Somehow she could not bring herself to say the word ‘baby’.
‘That she is in an interesting condition,’ she said, falling back on euphemism. ‘And obviously you need to marry her if you are ever to give the child any financial security and indeed your name. I know I once said I would never give you a divorce, but under the circumstances I am prepared to do so.’
Michael did not bother to conceal his delight, unexpectedly grabbing her hand and pumping it up and down. ‘Well, I must say that’s splendid news, old girl. Win will be absolutely over the moon when I tell her.’
‘I’m not doing it for her,’ Fran said. ‘And please don’t call me that. I am not your “old girl”.’
I can’t believe I was ever in love with him, she thought. Why was I so blind? Could it have been because I was just desperate to escape from Mummy?
Michael was babbling on regardless and calling for a drink, just as if they had had a good win at the races or something. She cut in briskly, explaining the ins and outs of the matter just as Mr Long had explained it all to her, only pausing while the waiter delivered Michael’s pink gin.
‘You’ve changed, you know,’ Michael said, once she had finished speaking and he had agreed that they should proceed as Mr Long suggested.
‘Everything changes,’ Fran said briskly. ‘After all, you once promised to love and cherish me until death us do part – and that didn’t last long, did it?’