Grand Affair

She turned from the window and going to her cupboard she picked out her most cheerful winter dress. A red dress with a high collar, close fitted and with a circular skirt, the many folds of which showed off her slim figure, making a feature of her sudden loss of weight.

‘Sea air. You must get out in the air,’ Veronica had kept murmuring, arriving in her room every day with papers to sign, and in the evenings a glass of champagne, which she encouraged Ottilie to drink, always saying, ‘There’s nothing like champagne to restore the human spirit. Believe me, I know.’

At first, dreary day after dreary day Ottilie hated seeing even Veronica and for some reason she especially hated the champagne, but to please her secretary and because she could see how worried she looked, she sipped at it, and after a while, some few weeks, she found she had started to look forward to its evening arrival, and to seeing Veronica and hearing about what was happening downstairs where life still went on, and things still mattered.

Veronica was too mature not to realize that something terrible had happened to Ottilie, but also, thankfully, too sensitive to say more than ‘drink your champagne’ or ‘sign here, Miss O’Flaherty’.

One day – Ottilie could not and did not care to remember which day it was – she said to her suddenly, ‘Don’t call me that any more. I know you don’t like first-naming, but if you don’t mind, from now on please call me “Miss Cartaret”.’

Veronica had merely nodded, not seeming to take much notice, but after that Ottilie did indeed become ‘Miss Cartaret’ again, not just to Veronica, but to the rest of the staff who telephoned to her room. The change made a difference to her somehow. As if the other person, Ottilie O’Flaherty, had died the night of Joseph’s farewell party.

Once she had satisfied herself that her dress was up to the neck, and the hem of it fashionably long and sufficiently demure – nearly to her ankle – Ottilie brushed back her thick dark hair and pulled it tightly into a large black velvet bow at her neck. She stared at herself in the dressing mirror behind the door. She was far too thin – keeping weight on always being a problem for her – she was still pale, and there were shadows under her eyes, but she was up at last, and she was about, and she was alive, and more than that, incredibly, and in time for her recovery, Philip was about to arrive home.

Constantia had telephoned the great news. Her patrician tones seemed suddenly healing to Ottilie, and, like Veronica, her tactful ability to not say too much a balm. After that night with Lorcan she was sure that she absolutely did not want anyone saying anything emotional to her ever again. She had spent weeks feeling bereft of everything that had once seemed to matter. Her family, her brothers, who were not her brothers, everything appeared to have been taken from her in a matter of a few hours. For weeks her belief in life had hovered between the blackest despair and inability to see any point in living, and a gradual awareness that there was still something to live for, the boy she had known and loved since she was ten.

It was staring at Philip’s photograph, remembering him as he had been their last day in St Elcombe, that had pulled her through. After all, he had laughed at the story of the nude drawing, teased her about her effortless ability to get herself into hot water. Of all people Philip would understand she was sure, and although his words kept coming back to her, You will be good until I get back, won’t you, Ottilie? and she remembered how she had worried that they would both change, for ever, that nothing ever stayed the same (and so it had proved), nevertheless even if she had been changed, perhaps – and in this she saw her salvation – perhaps he would not and so on seeing him she would change back again, and everything could be as it had been before, and he would still be the boy with the hare.

‘Of course I would love to come and see Philip the moment he gets back, but only after you have had your own welcoming party,’ Ottilie told Constantia. ‘Really. I would love to see him, but you must come first, you and everyone at Tredegar.’

Constantia had sounded surprised at Ottilie’s words, and unwillingly grateful, as if she would have liked to have said ‘I never expected you of all people to be like this, Ottilie, so accommodating’, but instead she made a funny little ‘oh’ sound, like breaking glass, and put the phone down after continuing in her clipped way, ‘Oh, very well. I’ll tell him. I know he’ll want to take you out to dinner. No, I tell you what – come here, for dinner, on Saturday. I’ll lay everything on. I won’t be coming down, I’ve been promised a day out with the Beaufort and a stay-over at Badminton. Philip should be quite better by Saturday night. They need to unwind after these tours of duty. Particularly when there’s been fighting.’

Philip’s endearingly cryptic letters festooned with little caricatures had ceased as soon as the regiment had left for Cyprus, and she had heard nothing more from him, not even when she had written to say how sorry she was that his best friend had been killed. Perhaps because of this she had been only too willing to believe Constantia when she said that ‘boys will be boys and when they’re abroad they sort of go into limbo’, but nevertheless, she was not prepared for what she saw crossing the hall towards her at Tredegar. Philip had always used to walk with such a quick step and he was always making a noise, whistling, or singing, or calling for the dogs.

She always remembered him, from a boy, coming towards her with a smile on his face, whereas the man approaching her now walked with a slow deliberate step, had no sign of gaiety in his face, and was not whistling. There were no dogs to be called. In seconds Ottilie realized that young Philip, like young Ottilie, had gone, that the young man who had waved so gaily and for so long as the train had pulled out of St Elcombe station that mellow Cornish evening had disappeared as if he had never been.

Of course this Philip, the present Philip, was still tall and handsome, his fair hair still wavy and thick, and his figure slim and upright, but his tanned skin was taut now, the lines around his mouth tight. Worst of all was the changed look in his eyes. His eyes were no longer Philip’s eyes, perpetually filled with the sudden joyous gaiety of life, the certain knowledge that something wonderful was just about to happen, a fish was about to jump, or Ludlow belt across the grass towards him, or the sun was up and climbing the sky and they were about to go swimming and picnicking and Berenger was promising to show them how to call down an owl by whistling in a special way. Even the possibility of such joys was gone, and Ottilie realized that the expression in Philip’s eyes was now watchful. He, like Constantia, now had the look of eagles.

‘Ottilie, my darling.’ He swung her round with a sort of dutiful false gaiety, and he kissed her on the lips, but his eyes said nothing at all, while his lips said, ‘Let me look at you, after all this time. You look marvellous.’

Ottilie smiled.

‘You look really marvellous,’ Philip continued mechanically. ‘Come upstairs where it’s warm. Constantia’s loaned us the use of her sitting room, it’ll be cosy there. After Cyprus, you can imagine, Tredegar feels like the Arctic.’

It was all terrible, just awful little words and neither of them saying anything that was real, Ottilie saying in bright tones, ‘Oh, I love Constantia’s sitting room,’ which she didn’t at all, thinking it was just like a shop. And ‘Ooh, good, champagne, I love champagne,’ just as if Veronica hadn’t been in the habit of bringing her a glass every evening for strictly medicinal reasons. So that now it seemed it would always taste like medicine to her.

‘So.’ Philip sat down opposite her. ‘What’s been happening here while I’ve been away? Plenty, I’m sure.’

Before, when they talked, Philip had always sat stroking dogs, but now there were no dogs to stroke he kept fiddling with his gold cigarette lighter, putting it up one way and then down another and turning it back, over and over again, and it was terribly irritating because he kept watching the lighter and his eyes deliberately avoided hers as they talked about all the things that had happened since they had parted at the station that evening and none of the things that had really happened to make their young selves go away for ever.

He said nothing about his sorrow at losing his friend, and Ottilie said nothing about what had happened to her. She said nothing about why she was so thin, why she was so subdued, even her voice sounding tired and thin, as if she was suffering from a sore throat.

Finally, unable to bear the falsity of the situation, and unable to eat or drink very much of the cold meats and salads left out for them either, Ottilie put down her wine glass and said quietly, ‘Philip don’t let’s pretend any more. We’ve known each other for so long.’

‘How do you mean?’ Philip stared at the base of his wine glass.

‘I mean that we’ve gone, haven’t we? The bits of us that were here before you went to Cyprus and before I got chucked out of the Grand, the young bits that thought something pretty wonderful was just around the corner, they have quite gone, and we’re just pretending to have dinner and conversation as if we had only known each other socially, instead of saying what we really feel, aren’t we?’

As soon as she had said it, Ottilie realized she had made a terrible mistake, because Philip immediately looked exactly as Constantia would if confronted by real, stated, feelings. He looked as if Ottilie had been sick in front of him, as if she had deeply offended his sense of propriety. His look put her behind a glass partition, mouthing soundlessly at him, worst of all it put her firmly on the other side of the tracks.

‘I simply do not know what you mean, Ottilie,’ he said.

Ottilie suddenly saw from that look that he had not only changed because of seeing friends die, he had changed because of being for so long in the company of other officers, men of his own kind, men who had not taken joy in keeping tame hares called Ludlow, but shot hares, or raced them and let hounds tear them to pieces while they gambled on the outcome. Men who drank at regimental dinners until they could no longer stand. Men who took girls when they could, but married their own kind. Men who did not understand emotions and certainly did not talk about them.

Ottilie put her napkin down. Too much had happened to her for her ever to want again to conceal or deny her feelings. She would not sob, or cry, or look for sympathy, but would just state them so that it would be as if she was holding them in her hands, as if they were different-coloured pieces of ribbon, or semi-precious stones, that she could hold up to the light and say, ‘Ah yes, this is jealousy, and this – this is confusion, and here, here is love.’ Or not.

‘Philip. I know you won’t like this, and I know you won’t want to see me again, but I also know that it is quite fatal for people not to talk about how they are, how everything is.’

She stood up and walked towards the fireplace with its two Herend greyhounds facing each other and its General Trading Company china clock with its gold hands, and its small cut-glass vase of flowers, and its pale pine mantel and its awful log-effect fire – Constantia had such strange taste – and stared down into the flickering falsity of the logs that were not really logs, and the fire that was only electric, and then she looked across at Philip, hoping that somehow all the new stiffness would suddenly go and they could both laugh and talk as they had always used to do.

‘I know you’ve had a horrid time, losing your friend and having to bury him, because Constantia told me, but all the time you’ve been away I have done nothing but think of you and pray for you and read your letters, and at night your photograph was the last image in front of my eyes before I fell asleep. But that’s not enough, is it? I mean, I promised you that I would keep myself for you when you came back, and I really did, except something terrible happened to me too, Philip.’

He was unmoving, still sitting in front of his stupid salad, and his eyes were so different from how she remembered them, and perhaps because he had not once touched her hand or made any attempt to do so, Ottilie suddenly knew that he already knew all about what had happened to her; and that he had known all the time, right from the moment when she had arrived at the old oak door with his family coat of arms above it, and it was that knowledge, about Ottilie, nothing to do with being in the Army, that had lain between them from the moment he had kissed her and swung her round.

‘I must admit I did hear something had happened to you. You know St Elcombe, they start to gossip before they even open their eyes in the morning.’

Ottilie did not know from where she now received her strength, but although her heart felt as if it had iced over as he spoke, she straightened her back and looked across at him, not wanting sympathy, but certainly still seeking some kind of understanding.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do know St Elcombe. But I must tell you everything, in my own words.’ She began again. ‘Something terrible happened to me, Philip, one of the worst things that can happen to a woman, and it was not my fault. There is nothing I can do about it, because to do anything would mean bringing scandal and hurt, and Lorcan – you know, Lorcan, my sort of brother – well, he says it is best forgotten, put behind me, and I think he’s right. But anyway I’m all right. I’m better now.’

At last, remembering his manners, Philip too stood up, but he didn’t walk towards her.

‘I’m glad,’ he said slowly. ‘I’m glad for your sake that you’re better. But – this is a bit awkward to say – but the trouble is, we have to face it, you’re damaged goods now, aren’t you, Ottilie?’

He said it quite casually, as if she was a parcel arrived, from Harrods which, most regrettably, he would have to send back.

‘Well, I – well yes, I suppose, put like that, I suppose, yes, I am.’ Ottilie stared at Philip, not really believing what he had just said.

‘I gather it was the usual girl’s party story, of course, and don’t get me wrong, I don’t blame you for sticking to it – your drink was spiked. But I’m not the only one who knows, I’m afraid, the whole of St Elcombe knows. Apparently the housekeeper or someone saw you leaving the hotel the night of the party, or whatever it was, in a bit of a state. Rather embarrassing for you in such a small place, but I expect they’ll all get over it. But it does, well, it does make things a bit awkward, doesn’t it?’

‘What do you mean by “awkward”, and “things”, Philip?’

‘By “things” I mean’ – he took out a cigarette from a slim gold case and slowly lit it, using his lighter. He did not bother to offer her one but drew on his own with such open satisfaction that Ottilie felt she could almost see the smoke going down to his lungs and then returning, slowly, slowly, at last to be expelled through his nose. ‘I suppose I mean “us” really, not “things”. I mean – yes, we must be frank, I suppose you’re right to say we must be frank. Before I went away I thought I was in love with you. When I wrote to you before the regiment was sent to Cyprus, I was crazy about you, but now – well, it’s just one of those things that happen, you know, lovely memories and all that, but it is over, really.’

‘I see.’

Emboldened perhaps by Ottilie’s cool reaction, Philip continued. ‘Constantia did try to warn me, after our party, that any girl who was sporting a Parisian model dress was not likely to be a plaster saint, but I didn’t believe her. Besides, you looked so cracking in it, I don’t suppose I cared how you got the dress either. But now it is quite different. I am back here for good. I will be out of the Army in another few months, and you know how it is, Ottilie. St Elcombe is such a small place. I must be careful to retain respect for my family. Father’s family having been here for so many hundreds of years we are expected to behave ourselves, anyway publicly. You see, traditionally, we usually end up as Lord Lieutenants of the county, greeting the monarch and members of the royal family and so on, and with this kind of story about you being such common gossip, in such a small place it makes it – well, quite frankly, it makes it a bit awkward to even go on taking you out. Constantia tells me that you have quite a good job now, that you’ve made quite a success of the Angel, and that you are all right, not in a bad way at all. So.’ He must have seen the astonishment in Ottilie’s eyes, for he turned to walk down the far side of the sitting room and stare up at a rather poorly painted portrait of his father in regimental uniform. ‘So, well, that’s how it is,’ he finished.

There was a long silence as Ottilie stared at his back. So this was it. This was the end of all those months of worrying and thinking and, yes, praying.

‘Fine,’ she said aloud. ‘Now let me just see, Philip,’ she said, continuing despite the fact that his back was still turned to her. ‘What you’re saying is that it would be bad for you and your position in the county to go on taking me out or being friends, because you believe what happened to me was my fault, and that I am the sort of person who would sleep with someone for the sake of a couture gown?’

‘In short, yes.’ He turned back from his father’s portrait, obviously relieved that Ottilie had stayed outwardly calm, had not screamed or protested her innocence or anything embarrassing. ‘It won’t matter to some other man, Ottilie, that you’re that sort of girl. It’s just for someone like me, with my position here at Tredegar, and all our connections in the town – well, it makes things very different for me, you understand? Some other man won’t mind. In fact from what I gather from others in the regiment, a great many girls are damaged goods now.’

‘If they have the bad luck to fall in love with men like you, yes, Philip, I would think they would be, very damaged.’

‘I mean, if you really want to know, if we put our cards on the table,’ he continued, ignoring her, ‘I didn’t mind about the nude drawing of you, I thought that was quite funny when you told me and I thought your parents were being a bit stuffy because taking your clothes off for some old Frenchman, well, who cares? But this is rather different. It’s actually caused a bit of scandal among the kind of people who come to work here, whose families have always worked here, and country people are very conservative. But don’t mind too much. I mean you’re still young and beautiful. You’ll find someone else, I’m sure, if not this year, next year.’

Ottilie picked up her handbag. Her heart was beating so fast it actually sounded like a drum in her ears, so hard was it thumping. She moved towards the door, but only once he had moved away from it, because the idea that he might even touch her hand was abhorrent to her. At the door she turned her head and directed her large eyes at what she saw now was a most arrogant face.

‘I shan’t protest my innocence, Philip. I’ve already done that quite enough in my life. Besides, I don’t see why I should. I know what happened, and I shall have to live with it. But I’ll tell you something now. What happened to me I admit was quite definitely my fault. I was foolish, I went to a party and drank too much when I should not have done, but I promise you, here and now, I shall prove to you how wrong you were about me, how wrong you were about my character and about the sort of person I am. I am not as you so sweetly call me “damaged goods” and I am a person not a chattel, and so long as I keep away from people like you I expect I have a good chance of becoming mended.’

She closed the door behind her and ran down the many stairs, past his long-faced wigged and velvet-coated ancestors, under his coat of arms and out into the cold night air. As she ran towards her car she could hear the sea beyond the gardens, and feel its breeze on her face, and it lifted her to a sudden dizzying sense of freedom. She could not lie. In her heart of hearts as she had said goodbye to the person that Philip now was, she had felt not sadness, but only a profound sense of relief.

After all, in a few weeks, or months, or however long it took, and in defiance of good sense, of Phelps her lawyer, of everything logical, she would be the new owner of the Grand, St Elcombe. This time it would be she, Ottilie, who would be doing the adopting. Damaged goods or not, she would survive, and win.