Diana, seated at her dressing table, smoked a cigarette and contemplated her pots and brushes. The Tite Street flat, procured by Lally and just a walk away from Dolphin Square, was proving very satisfactory: bedroom, small kitchen, and a shared bathroom on the landing with a heater that gave off a rather ominous smell, but could usually be relied upon for hot water. It was cosy, and, with the help of a maid, fairly easy to maintain despite her lack of practice. So much nicer, she thought with satisfaction, than the cavernous, ecclesiastical gloom of Evie’s vast manor house (re-built in 1859 in a style Diana privately thought of as Widow’s Gothic).
Diana spat in her eye-black, dabbed it with the miniature brush provided, and applied it to her lashes. Evie actually seemed proud of the fact that the wretched place was uncomfortable; it was as if each draughty corridor, rotting tapestry and clanging pipe was a personal triumph. And then there was Guy’s old room, a time-capsule of his adolescence, or maybe not. Her husband, Diana reflected, had never really managed to surmount that particular phase of life. The contents of his bedroom – coloured prints of battleships tacked to the panelled walls, stamp albums, toy soldiers, collections of birds’ eggs and far too many tinted photographs of his mother – reflected him now, mentally stalled at the age of fifteen. Diana patted her face with powder and wondered if the army would succeed in ‘making a man’ of him. Judging by his infrequent letters (she’d bet her last penny that Evie received three for every one addressed to her), it wasn’t likely; the war, for him, seemed to be merely a continuation of the Eton Corps. Of course, they weren’t allowed to say much about what was actually happening, but all the same …
She was about to pick up her lipstick when a sudden memory of the incompetence – there was no other word for it – of their
wedding night made her turn from the mirror in shame. She’d schooled herself never to think of it; even sitting here, alone, the humiliation was unbearable. It had been so unexpected. After all, Guy was eight years older than she, and his veneer of worldliness had led her to believe that he must know all about that sort of thing, that he would take the lead and … well, initiate her. She’d been so much in love with him, wanting to give herself – how revoltingly, coyly romantic it all seemed now! She’d lain there, waiting for it to happen, and …
Leaning forward, she massaged her temples hard, trying to squeeze the image out of her mind. The real problem, she thought, is that I’ve never understood about love. There hadn’t been much of it in her childhood: her father’s affections had been lavished on dogs and horses, but not people, and her mother, undemonstrative and distant, had never petted or praised. When her parents died, Diana felt that she’d never really known them at all. In childhood, she’d hankered after the sort of love one read about in books, the big, warm family, full of laughter and games and good counsel. Later, she’d yearned for the love she’d seen on the screen, the longing, the passion and the final kiss that made you good, made you whole, made you belong. When handsome, dashing, worldly Guy came along, she’d thought her feelings were real; it was only later that she realised, with horror, that he could have been almost anyone. Desperately clutching at what she lacked, she’d manufactured the emotions by a process not unlike self-hypnosis, and fitted them to him. And Guy had needed a wife, hadn’t he? Evie, she’d later learned, had been urging him to marry, and Diana, the young, pliable orphan, was, in her eyes, perfect.
Not any more. Diana grimaced at herself in the mirror, then stuck out her tongue, but still the image of that first, terrible night refused to be jollied away, and anyway, it was a half-hearted effort. With her mother dead, a married aunt had taken it upon herself to give a vague sort of pep talk about male urges and wifely duties. She’d said it was bound to hurt a bit at first, but one soon got used to it and might actually come to find it not unpleasant and, if one was lucky enough to have a considerate husband, rather comforting. It would have been a lot more useful, thought Diana bitterly, if she’d simply told me how to – and here she deliberately framed the forbidden word with her lips as if launching it across the room.
Then at least she would have known what was supposed to happen. When it eventually had happened, on the last night of their honeymoon, after a week of avoiding each other’s eyes and not mentioning it, she’d lain on her back, willing herself to relax but afraid to move in case it put Guy off. Watching his face, or what she could see of it in the dark, she’d decided that his grimace and the noises he made were less to do with passion and more with the sheer effort of getting the thing done.
Diana was about to finish her make-up when she noticed that her left hand was still unadorned. She got up and rummaged inside her handbag until she found her wedding ring. She contemplated it for a moment, then opened her jewellery box, dropped it in, and closed the lid. Then, in a series of swift, deliberate movements, she applied her lipstick, blotted it with a tissue, gave her nose a last dab of powder, and adjusted the neck of her evening dress. Gathering up her bag, gloves and coat, she locked the door of the flat behind her, and went out into the street.
The party was in Mayfair, at the home of Jock Anderson, an admirer of Lally’s, for whom Diana had worked at Wormwood Scrubs. She asked the taxi to stop at Piccadilly Circus. It was a warm evening, her new shoes weren’t pinching too much, and she wanted to compose herself a bit before entering a room full of people – somehow, the cab ride hadn’t quite done the trick. She was gradually getting used to arriving at places unaccompanied, but she still felt diffident about it. The parties she’d attended with Guy were full of people of his age, not hers, and she’d usually found them pretty dull. The parties she went to now were much more lively. There was always someone to take you on to a nightclub afterwards, and somehow the age of the guests no longer seemed to matter. She supposed that was because of the war: the feeling that one might as well have a bit of fun while there was still time. The thought of invasion frightened her, as it must, she thought, frighten most people, but it didn’t do to talk about it.
She wondered who would be at Jock Anderson’s party. Lally certainly, and, she hoped, Colonel Forbes-James. He’d been so pleased with her on Sunday when she’d gone to Dolphin Square to report on her introduction to Mrs Montague. She allowed herself to bask for a moment in the memory of how he’d nodded and smiled and pushed a wrapped present into her hand as she’d left his flat. It had
turned out to be a jar of bath salts. She suddenly wondered how he’d come by it. It was impossible to think of him doing anything as frivolous as wandering about Selfridges selecting gifts, but how else would he have acquired such an item?
It was at this point, as she passed the entrance to the Royal Academy, that Diana became aware, although she couldn’t have said quite how, that someone was following her, and that, judging by the footsteps, it was a man. She tried to persuade herself that this couldn’t be the case, and when that failed, decided to put it to the test. She slowed down. He slowed down. She quickened her pace. He quickened his. When she turned right into Old Bond Street he turned, too. Putting all thoughts of the white slave trade, if it actually existed (people always knew someone who knew someone), out of her mind, she crossed the road and turned left into Stafford Street. He followed, and when she turned left again, into Albemarle Street, he stayed with her. With her destination now in sight, she was no longer worried. She marched confidently up the steps, rang the bell, and stood back to wait. Surely, she thought, he must give up now.
He didn’t. In a matter of seconds, he was standing right behind her. She felt a prickle of fear. What the hell did he want? I’m not turning round, she thought. He can do whatever he likes, but I’m not going to pay any attention. In any case he’d look pretty stupid when Jock appeared – she just wished he’d hurry up – and gave him his marching orders.
She saw the door open, acknowledged Jock’s smile, and then, before she could speak, he looked directly over her head and said ‘Ventriss! Delighted you’re here. Come on in.’ Turning to Diana, he continued, ‘I didn’t know you two knew each other.’
‘We don’t,’ said Diana, covering her embarrassment in the twin actions of handing her coat to Jock’s elderly manservant and fussing, quite unnecessarily, with her evening bag. When she did look up – quite a long way up, because the man was very tall, even to her five feet seven plus high heels – she found herself staring into a pair of twinkling brown eyes. The man was older than her, about thirty, so ridiculously good-looking – and obviously aware of the fact – and so immaculate in his dress that she felt her chin lift automatically. ‘This is Mrs Calthrop.’ Jock sounded amused. ‘Claude Ventriss.’
Diana drew off her glove, extended a deliberately limp hand, and murmuring, ‘How d‘you do?’ swept down the hall without waiting for an answer. Spotting Lally in the crush of the front room, which was smoky, and, because of the blackouts, phenomenally hot, she secured a drink and, drawing the other woman aside, said, ‘I’ve just been introduced to the most extraordinary man.’
‘What’s he called?’
‘Ventriss. I didn’t catch his first name.’ This was a lie, but Diana felt entitled to it. After all, the man had followed her quite deliberately – he must have known jolly well where Jock’s house was – and he was far too handsome for his own good. Lally laughed. ‘His name’s Claude. Works for us. I’m surprised you haven’t come across him before, but now that you have …’ she leant forward conspiratorially, ‘Whatever you do, don’t fall in love with him.’
‘That’s not very likely,’ said Diana, with as much hauteur as she could muster.
‘Isn’t it?’ asked Lally, innocently. ‘Most women do. One sees it all the time.’
‘Perhaps one does,’ retorted Diana, ‘But one’s certainly not going to see it now.’ As put-downs went, it wasn’t exactly a trump, but it was the best she could manage in the circumstances.
Lally looked sceptical. ‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ Before Diana could think of a response to this, they were joined by Forbes-James and several other people and the conversation, mercifully, took a different tack.
After a couple of hours, when she’d stopped feeling ruffled and was enjoying herself, Diana felt her arm being stroked. A deep voice said ‘Excuse me,’ and, as she was propelled around to face the speaker, a hint of conspiracy in the eyes of the man she’d been talking to – alarmingly similar to Jock’s face in the hall earlier – told her exactly who the caresser was going to be. He said, ‘I’ve been finding out all about you.’
‘Have you really?’
Ventriss nodded. ‘Really. I’m very impressed.’
‘I’m so glad,’ said Diana, sarcastically.
‘You’re quite the pin-up girl, aren’t you?’
‘Am I?’
‘Oh, yes.’
Diana wasn’t sure what to say next. She wished he wouldn’t look at her with such a particular expression of dreamy greediness. She’d seen it on men’s faces before, but they usually pretended to turn their attention elsewhere for a few seconds from time to time. Ventriss’s gaze, continuous and unabashed, made her feel uncomfortable, and she knew that he wasn’t going to be thrown off by mere froideur. ‘Yes,’ he repeated thoughtfully, glancing down at her naked left hand, ‘Old F-J is very taken with you, Mrs Calthrop.’ Remembering the sequence of events that had led her to consign her wedding ring to the jewellery box, Diana blushed. Hating herself for it, and trying to recover ground, she said, ‘You know Colonel Forbes-James?’
‘Of course,’ he said absently, and carried on staring at her. Diana pulled herself together. ‘Why were you following me?’ she challenged. ‘You must have known I wasn’t going the right way.’
‘I liked the look of you.’
‘You couldn’t see me.’
‘I couldn’t see your face. But I promised myself that if you were a tart, I’d buy you, and if you weren’t, I’d take you out to dinner.’
‘You can’t buy me that way, either.’ Determined not to appear more rattled than she already was, Diana asked, ‘Why did you think I might be a tart?’
Ventriss shrugged. ‘It’s not easy to tell from a woman’s back. An expensive tart, of course,’ he said, as an afterthought.
Diana tried to check herself – why was she even engaging in this ludicrous conversation? – but the words came out anyway. ‘I might have been hideous.’
Ventriss shook his head. ‘I knew you’d be lovely. Only beautiful women walk like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘With assurance. You know damn well people are looking at you.’
This, she thought, was a quite extraordinary thing to say; she’d been brought up to believe that it was wrong to think one was attractive or, indeed, noticeable in any way. ‘Nobody will be looking at you, dear,’ was how her Nanny had always put it. ‘No I don’t,’ she said.
‘Really?’ Ventriss raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t believe you.’ After a moment’s pause, he added, ‘I’m going to leave you to your friends.
I’ll come and find you later, and we can have dinner.’ He turned abruptly and disappeared into the throng.
Lally materialised at Diana’s elbow. ‘Fallen in love yet?’ she asked.
‘Certainly not.’
‘Well, in that case, do you want to come on to the 400? Davey Tremaine’s getting a party together. Unless you have other plans, of course.’
‘No,’ said Diana, firmly.
‘You’ll come, then?’
‘Why not?’
Claude Ventriss appeared in the hall as Davey Tremaine was assisting Diana and Lally with their coats. ‘You’re ready,’ he said. ‘Good. We should be just in time for Sovrani’s.’
‘I thought you didn’t have other plans,’ Lally murmured.
‘I don’t.’ Diana turned her back on Ventriss and mouthed, ‘Help me.’
Lally shrugged. Diana glared at her, and turned to face Ventriss again. ‘I don’t want to have dinner with you,’ she said.
‘Yes you do,’ said Ventriss calmly. ‘You’ll enjoy it.’
‘I shan’t.’
‘Don’t be childish. Of course you will.’
Diana glanced at Lally, who was patting her hair in front of a mirror and giving a very bad imitation of someone who wasn’t listening. ‘Escalope de Veau,’ intoned Ventriss. ‘Sûpreme de Volaille. Homard Thermidor. Sauté de Boeuf Stroganoff.’
‘Do you know the entire menu by heart?’ Diana snapped.
‘Yes,’ said Ventriss. ‘And it’s all delicious. Stop prevaricating and come with me.’
‘No, I bloody well won’t.’
‘Huîtres Mornay. Coupe Jacques. Yes you bloody well will.’
‘Have fun,’ said Lally, sardonically.
Davey Tremaine winked. ‘Pêche Melba,’ he said. ‘Crêpes au Citron.’
‘Not you as well,’ said Diana.
‘You know you want to. Anyway, we’re off. Enjoy yourselves!’ Taking Lally’s arm, Tremaine ushered her out of the front door and down the steps. Out-manoeuvred and cursing herself for being
feeble, Diana decided it wasn’t worth making a scene – she was pretty hungry, after all – and accompanied Ventriss into the street. ‘Do you ever take no for an answer?’ she asked.
Ventriss shook his head and stepped into the road to look for a taxi. Watching him, Diana thought, he probably doesn’t get no for an answer – at least, not from women. Meekly, she allowed herself to be helped into the back of a cab, which had materialised as if by magic. (It would, she thought.)
‘You’ll have a lovely time,’ said Ventriss, offering her a cigarette. ‘Excellent food, and lots more people to admire you.’
‘I told you, I don’t want people to admire me.’
‘No you didn’t, you said you weren’t aware of people looking at you. That wasn’t true, either.’ He smiled at her. ‘No point in being beautiful if nobody’s there to notice. It’s wasteful.’
Diana was about to retort that she bet people noticed him all right when she realised that this would imply a compliment that she wasn’t prepared to pay.
‘No need to be coy about it,’ he continued. ‘You must know how lovely you are.’
‘You sound like one of those stupid novels by men where the heroine looks in the glass and admires her beauty. It simply isn’t like that. When a woman – any woman – looks at herself, all she sees are the things that need putting right. Now, can we please talk about something else?’
‘Anything you like, Mrs Calthrop.’ He glanced down at her (now gloved) left hand.
Feeling that it would be unbearable to go on like this for the rest of the evening, she said, ‘Diana.’
After a slight pause, during which she prepared herself for something silly about goddesses or huntresses, Ventriss said, simply, ‘Claude.’
‘Are you French?’
‘My mother. My father was English. Why don’t you wear a wedding ring?’
She didn’t answer immediately. She couldn’t. Such a direct question was better than a lunge, she supposed, but not much. She looked at his handsome face and experienced, despite her best efforts to quell it, a sharp and disturbingly localised pang of excitement. For a split second she contemplated telling him that she
was widowed, but refrained. However disappointing her marriage had turned out, to say that Guy was dead would be too much like wishing it, and she didn’t. The other reason, much to her disgust, was a practical one: if he wished, Ventriss would easily be able to find out that Guy was still alive. She chose another lie. ‘I’m afraid it was lost.’
‘Oh?’ Really, she thought, he might at least try to sound as if he believes me. Remembering Forbes-James’s dictum about lying (tell a good one and above all stick to it), she looked Ventriss squarely in the eye. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it went down a drain. I think my hands must have got thinner, because it just slipped off while I was washing them.’
‘What a shame,’ he murmured. ‘Still, I daresay Mr Calthrop will buy a new one.’
‘I’m sure he will,’ said Diana, firmly.
‘When he returns.’
‘Returns?’
‘I understand he’s abroad, with his regiment.’
Diana laughed. ‘You have been checking up on me, haven’t you?’
‘Yes. As I told you.’
‘My turn to check up on you, then. Is there a Mrs Ventriss?’
‘Not yet, no.’
They made desultory conversation for the rest of the journey. While they were talking, Diana mentally returned to the fact that he was unmarried several times, and felt – self-disgust rearing its head again, but more feebly each time – relieved. It had never been her habit to lie, or no more than anybody else did, anyway, but really, it was becoming surprisingly easy. Added to which, the knowledge that Ventriss didn’t believe her story about the wedding ring was alarmingly enjoyable. She couldn’t be tipsy, could she? She’d only had two drinks, although they had, admittedly, been pretty strong ones with a good deal of gin … all the same, she decided, she was quite sober enough to fend him off if he pounced. He’d already done the verbal equivalent, so a spot of mental preparation was definitely called for. Not that it wouldn’t be nice, although, of course, quite inappropriate. And there would be the satisfaction of knocking him back when he thought she’d be his for the taking.
Having got this straight (or straight-ish) in her mind, Diana started to enjoy herself in earnest. The staff at Sovrani’s clearly knew Ventriss well and made a great fuss of them both, and the dinner was as good as he’d promised. They talked about the war, but in a reassuringly off-hand way, and about Forbes-James. Diana knew she couldn’t question Ventriss directly about what he did, any more than he could question her, but the fact that they both did it and knew they couldn’t talk about it made it rather thrilling – to her, at least; she supposed it was nothing new for him. He must have taken any number of female agents far more experienced than she out to dinner and probably – the thought was at the back of her mind throughout the meal – bedded them afterwards.
While he settled the bill and chatted to the maitre d’, she reflected that she hadn’t laughed so much in months. It occurred to her that Guy, with whom she’d been – or thought she’d been – herself so terrifically in love, had never made her laugh much. Telling herself that the comparison was a dangerous one – she wasn’t in love with Claude, and nor was she going to be – she snapped her compact shut and allowed herself to be helped into her coat with a full complement of bowing and general foreign flummery, before being escorted from the restaurant. The sudden fresh air made her aware of the effect of the wine she’d drunk with the meal, on top of the gin, and she allowed Claude to put a proprietorial arm round her as he ushered her towards another taxi. Like the first one, it seemed, despite the fact that it was now almost pitch dark, to appear out of nowhere as soon as they reached the kerb. Inside, after stating her address, she found that his hand was on hers (how had that happened?). It felt warm and nice, so she allowed it to remain there for the duration of the journey. She’d assumed that he would take the taxi on after seeing her to her door but he paid off the driver. She waited on the pavement while this was happening, feeling awkward. She must thank him – it would be unpardonably rude (as well as risky in the blackout) to rush off up the steps – but she wasn’t at all sure of what might happen next.
As the cab drove off and Ventriss turned to face her, she was struck afresh, even in the near darkness, by his looks. She took a step back, felt her shoulders collide with the railings, and then, in short order, felt his hand on her neck, forcing her head up (not that it needed much help), his mouth on her mouth, his thigh between
her thighs, and his other hand inside her coat, cupping her breast. After the initial surprise, Diana quickly found herself struggling between arousal – his mouth was lovely, and his thumb, expertly caressing her nipple with just the right amount of pressure, was giving her an alarmingly liquid feeling – and wondering how long she dared let it go on before slapping his face. Not that she wanted to, but he’d done the whole thing without so much as a preamble and that wasn’t on, no matter how much she was enjoying it.
She was about to take action when he suddenly released her and, brushing her cheek with his lips, said, in a light, almost mocking tone, ‘Goodnight, my dear. No doubt I’ll see you soon.’ Before she had time to do more than take a breath, the darkness had reduced him to mere footsteps on the pavement. Goodnight, my dear! As if she were a … a barmaid or something. Who the hell did he think he was? She peered after him, but the feeble circles of light from the veiled lamp-posts illuminated nothing but the ground beneath them. Serve him right if he falls over a dustbin, she thought, angrily, and listened for the satisfying sound of a clang and a curse. When none came, she turned, and, using the railings as a guide, groped her way up the steps and, after a furious scrabble in her bag for keys, through the front door. Flustered and thoroughly humiliated, she set about undressing and preparing for bed, attacking her face with cream and avoiding her eyes in the mirror.
Lying in bed, Diana found her anger giving way to self-recrimination. What the hell was she playing at? She’d been warned, hadn’t she? Not that Lally or Jock, or anyone else for that matter, had been much help. Whatever she felt towards Guy, the man was fighting for his country, and she was carrying on like a … like what, exactly? She hadn’t done anything – except allow herself to be kissed. And enjoy allowing herself to be kissed. And … For God’s sake, she told herself irritably, it doesn’t matter. In any case, she wasn’t going to fall in love with him. She’d only be making the same mistake, and the consequences would be even worse. ‘Oh, God!’ She sprang out of bed, opened her jewellery box and, extracting her wedding ring, rammed it firmly back on her finger.