Tell the Girl

‘You won’t forget the drink with Matt Seeley tonight, Joe? We said seven-thirty at the White Elephant.’ Joe was on his way out, due to record a radio play and cursing the early start. ‘Try not to be late, love, you’re more into Washington than me.’

‘No, just a fact. You had a drink with Matt there, you’ve got more to talk about.’

I needed Joe for protection. Matt had been calling from Washington declaring all sorts of undying feelings and I didn’t trust myself to keep my distance.

I’d been working hard at my marriage in the months since being back, while Joe kept pulling as hard the other way. I despaired of him. He was drinking tankfuls, vodka all day, quantities of wine, brandy, whisky, and he could be quite frightening when the drink really took hold. He was fine with a party to go to, but his downers were deeper than the Jules Verne depths. I couldn’t talk to him; he swatted me away.

It was May, but felt like February and I spent an icy day outdoors, working for Duffy, shower dodging in Hyde Park. I was a frozen block, very glad that we packed up early and I could go home to have a precious hour or two with Bella before meeting Matt.

I changed into a black wool dress, scoop-necked and long-sleeved, not too flaunting of flesh, and was about to go when the phone rang. I almost left it to ring, as it was getting late and was sure to be Joe crying off. He’d thought a drink with Matt and me reeked of boredom, yawn, yawn. I’d picked up that much.

It wasn’t Joe, it was my mother and I heard the stress in her voice instantly.

‘Dad’s had a heart attack – a small one, I don’t want you to be too worried. He just has to rest up for a couple of weeks – and stop eating chips!’

She wasn’t up to light asides, close to breaking down, I felt. ‘You mustn’t worry either, Mum, promise me that? It’ll take all your energies simply to keep Dad confined to bed. It would be a bit difficult tomorrow, but I can get out of my Friday’s booking and be with you by midday. I’ll have Bella with me as Miss Hadley has the weekend off, but you must leave her to me, no picking her up and making more work for yourself. I can arrange to stay next week, too.’

‘No, don’t do that, it’s just lovely if you can come this weekend. It would mean a lot to Dad. And to me too, darling.’

Miss Hadley was beside me. We’d been saying good night, and she’d heard it all. ‘I don’t need time off,’ she said, as I hung up, ‘I can come and lend a hand if I wouldn’t be in the way. Bella’s such a little minx now and your mother will only want to help.’

‘You’d be far from in the way,’ I said, immensely touched and grateful. ‘I’ll phone Mum back, if you’re really sure, then I must dash.’

Miss Hadley and I had found a rapport. She’d stopped seeing me as flighty, had absorbed that I paid the bills and wasn’t just modelling-obsessed. I wondered if she’d taken a call or two from Joe’s debtors. He laid on the charm with her, but rather more erratically of late, and with less winsome effect.

I drove on autopilot to Curzon Street, fretting about Dad, praying he’d be a good patient, wind down and have a holiday at last, as well as the enforced rest. I parked my Mini in a tight space outside the Club – too small for Mayfair’s Bentleys and Rolls – and hurried in. I was late, distressed, an apology on my lips – frustrated to see, as I feared, that Joe hadn’t arrived. Matt was sitting up at the bar, drinking alone just as Richard Burton had been, and must be on his second martini at least.

‘Sorry, Matt,’ I said breathlessly, ‘keeping you waiting like this. Don’t be too cross!’

He climbed down from his barstool with a beaming smile, then, taking hold of my shoulders and studying me a minute, he let the smile fade. ‘Something’s wrong. Tell me. I can see it in your eyes.’

I’d tried to mask the worry and wondered at his perception while explaining about my mother’s news. ‘It’s a small heart attack, no more than a warning call, I’m sure. Dad has a country practice and he never lets up. I’d hoped Joe would be here,’ I said, as Matt led the way to one of the tables in the bar with navy armchairs, ensuring the Burton evening stayed vivid in my mind. ‘He must have got waylaid, but I’m sure he’ll make it soon.’

‘Good memory! How are you, Matt? It’s been six months, which is hard to believe.’

I smiled. ‘Tell me what’s going on in your life, girls, everything. And how’s Pierre?’

‘He’s fine, as up against it as ever. Who’d be the President’s Press Secretary! It’s why I’ve been stuck in Washington, walking up the walls. But why ask about girls? You’re the one, Susannah, you must know that by now. I’ve been out of my mind, desperate to swing getting to London to see you. I’ve tried every dodge and wheeze over the months, but no dice. God, the frustration . . .’ Edging his armchair closer, Matt covered my hand with his, fingers pressing, curling round my palm. ‘I’m passionate about you, so obsessed that it’s scary. It carves me up, seeing you in ads everywhere – Jim Beam, Chevrolet. I buy all the magazines, I’ve got a pile way high.’

It was embarrassing, overdone, and I looked down, avoiding his eyes. Matt knew my mind was on my father; it felt a little insensitive, not the right time. His concern when I came in had been heartening, though, he’d genuinely seemed to care. It was impossible to forget about New York either, how he’d seized me with such passion in the Ferrones’ hall, kissing me with Joe only feet away, in the next room.

Matt was fingering my hand, expecting some response. ‘Let’s talk about anything other than me now,’ I said. ‘And shall we have a bite to eat here, if you’ve no other plans? Joe can join us, as and when he shows.’ He obviously wasn’t going to, that was clear.

I told the barman where to direct Joe and we made our way through to the restaurant. A waiter took us to a discreet back table; the place was so softly lit it was almost in darkness, but Matt was well aware of the news I’d just had and I felt I could relax.

He asked about my childhood and I talked about my brother, my mother giving up a career as a barrister, her wartime struggles – in Malta during the siege, my father away fighting, the desperate shortage of food and me choosing just that time to be born – all the sacrifices made. ‘She’s always helped with the practice too,’ I said. ‘She’s worn out herself, and now has to cope with the shock of Dad. They’ve never taken holidays, however much I’ve tried to persuade them. Maybe when he’s a bit better . . .’

Matt surveyed me; his foot was lightly touching mine. With his freckles and short hair, clean-cut all-American look, the sense about him of fast cars and fun, his restraint tonight was a relief and a surprise.

‘I’ve had an idea,’ he said, ‘and please hear me out. Remember I told you about the rich old lady in Boston who gives me the use of her cottage near Saint Paul de Vence? She won’t be there now, or in June. Take your parents. I’d stay in Cannes; you needn’t see me at all unless you want to. No strings. The cottage is gloriously peaceful, with fabulous views, no telephone, no distractions – and a great restaurant, the Colombe d’Or, just up the road. If your parents knew it was only costing the fares . . .’

‘I don’t know, Matt. It’s incredibly kind of you, it sounds perfect in every way, but my parents might wonder a little about a guy like you, over from America – certainly not an old family friend – making such an amazing offer out of the blue. You do see it’s potentially a little awkward.’

I didn’t mention the fact that Mum – Dad, too, now, since Joe’s disappearance at the time of Bella’s birth – had few illusions about the rocky state of my marriage.

‘Can’t you say I simply want to help? I can fit in on timing, Pierre owes me.’

‘Thanks, Matt, it’s wonderful of you. I’ll talk to Mum this weekend and see.’ I felt terribly torn. ‘It would be great,’ I added, reaching for Matt’s hand. ‘I’ve never been to the South of France, as it happens, but this would be for my parents, their treat.’

‘I can’t believe they’d mind, though, if I showed you Cannes one afternoon . . .’ He gave me a sideways look.

Three weeks later, we landed at Nice airport. Dad looked sickly, Mum, lined and drained. I’d hired a small Renault and drove away nervously on the wrong side of the road, crawling like an elderly Sunday driver with Mum reading out Matt’s directions and Dad poring over a huge map. We finally made it to the Villa Laurier-Rose.

I’d been fairly honest with Joe, said that Matt, hearing about Dad, had told of a small villa available near St Paul de Vence. I’d asked Joe to come too, knowing he’d probably be rehearsing in Chichester and saying, truthfully, that the second bedroom at the house was extremely small. Joe wasn’t interested anyway. The opening of the new Chichester Theatre the previous year had been a success and he was pleased to be acting there again. He’d half-apologised, in his terms anyway, for not showing at the Club that evening, saying he’d had a better offer during the day. ‘I’m sure you did,’ I’d muttered sarcastically, while not forgetting my own mad moments, my rush of blood, the last time we were there.

Matt was watching out for us, sitting on a stone wall, luxuriating in the warmth of a sunny day. The temperature was in the seventies. He greeted us, tactfully avoiding kissing me.

It was early afternoon. We’d eaten on the plane and I urged Dad to hurry to bed and rest. ‘You’re here to take it easy, remember, that’s the whole point.’

‘Fuss, fuss!’ He was clearly exhausted, though, sinking down gratefully onto a cushioned bench against the wall of the veranda where we’d just come in. He stared ahead, his attention held, looking enraptured. ‘I’ve never seen a more stupendous view. It’s magical!’

‘Your bedroom has the same outlook,’ Matt said, ‘with more sea. And a bathroom.’

That got Dad climbing the single flight, still marvelling, but finally stretching out on the bed. ‘This bolster pillow thing is more comfortable than it looks,’ he said.

The other bedroom was little more than an alcove off the living room, but there was a downstairs loo. Matt showed us the kitchen, the basic provisions he’d brought. He explained about the hot water, rubbish collection, quirks of the keys – and then made us some tea.

The covered veranda where he took the tray had a sizable refectory table and ladder-back rush chairs, comfy basket armchairs, a cushioned bench along the wall. I could see we’d eat every meal there. The garden was terraced to cope with the terrain, tended, yet given its head; roses and peonies mingled with cottage flowers, plants tumbled over the retaining drystone walls. ‘There’s a small swimming pool that you can’t see from here,’ Matt said, ‘and a patio with sun chairs and stuff. Come, take a look.’

‘I’ll stay here, I think,’ my mother said. ‘I’ll pop upstairs soon to see how Dad is doing.’

Matt beamed at her. ‘Should I perhaps run Susannah up to the village, show her the shops, the boulangerie, that sort of thing? Would you and Henry be okay for a while?’

‘Happy as sand boys,’ Mum assured him. ‘Off you go and explore, love,’ she said to me, ‘and no need to hurry back.’

She rose and picked up the tea tray, only to smile helplessly when Matt was quick to take it from her. I worried about what she was thinking, whether she was disapproving at heart. She must know that young men like Matt didn’t hang around being altruistic. He didn’t give off an aura of innocence – there was nothing of the saint about him. Still, Mum seemed happy for me – or maybe she was just too concerned and preoccupied. I should be too. I felt guilty, anxious, and said a small prayer for Dad.

‘Those are grapefruit and mandarin trees,’ Matt said, as we walked down the garden. I was glad he didn’t take my hand. ‘And the pink oleander hedges give the villa its name. Just past that old olive tree is the best place for the view.’

I stood looking out over a panorama of villages, church steeples and sleepy countryside with the sea in the distance, gleaming like polished silver; a haze softened the hills that framed and encircled the bay. It was the still of the afternoon, calming. Perfect peace.

‘I could stand here till the leaves have fallen from the trees, drinking this in.’

‘But I think we should go to the village.’ Matt lightly stroked my bare arm, giving me tingles. ‘And perhaps after that have a swim? Then I must get back to my hotel.’

‘I should be paying for that!’ I exclaimed, shocked not to have thought of it before.

‘Pierre’s picking up the tab – well, the government is. I’ll scout about a bit while I’m here.’

We set off up the winding road to St Paul de Vence. I hadn’t had a holiday since that unique, unbelievable time in California with the Romanoffs and Sinatra, though tensions with Joe had cast a shadow even then. It was nearly two years ago now.

‘They like it all right, don’t they?’ Matt turned with a grin. ‘It’s working out?’

He left the car by the roadside and we walked the last bit to the village, strolling into its medieval heart, down narrow cobbled lanes, cool and dark in shadow, illuminated where openings gave way to the incredible view. We watched a game of pétanque going on under huge plane trees in front of the Café de la Place; leathery old men in brown trousers intent on their play. A church bell was chiming, competing with the metallic clink when the heavy balls made contact – to satisfied Gallic grunts.

‘Yves Montand plays here with the locals,’ Matt said, ‘or brings his celebrity friends. He and Simone Signoret were married here, having met at La Colombe d’Or. You must have dinner there, if only to see the paintings – Chagall, Braque, Matisse, the Picassos – they litter the walls.’

‘I’ll suggest it to Mum and Dad. Would you come too, but definitely on me?’

Matt rested his arm on my shoulder and fondled my neck under my hair. ‘I’m sure this isn’t allowed,’ he said, without removing his hand, ‘if I’m to stop you imagining ulterior motives. It’s just, in this very romantic setting . . .’

That was all very well, yet his offer of the cottage, possibly not quite as genuinely spontaneous as I’d imagined, was a wonderful boon and Matt was persuasive. It wasn’t easy, at this stage of knowing him, to resist. ‘Time I did some shopping,’ I said, ‘and we started back.’

‘One kiss,’ he said in the car. ‘And am I going to be allowed to show you Cannes? A turn round Antibes, Cap-Ferrat, Juan-les-Pins – of course asking your parents along, too.’

We had a swim and Matt stayed for a drink when he mentioned Cannes and sightseeing. My parents loved the idea of a drive, but said they weren’t up to exploring in towns. ‘Say we pottered to somewhere like Antibes, had a light lunch and I dropped you back here for a nap?’ Matt suggested, which went down well. ‘I could whizz Susannah on into Cannes perhaps then for a quick mooch at the boutiques.’ Neatly done, I thought.

I didn’t window-shop in Cannes. I caved in, gave in. It was inevitable – it could have happened in New York. Matt parked off the Croisette and we meandered; I soaked up the beauty of it all, admiring too, the splendid Belle Epoque façade of the Carlton Hotel.

‘It’s where I’m staying,’ Matt said. ‘Come and have a Knickerbocker Glory, or its French equivalent, on the terrace. It’s worth seeing.’

The terrace looked out through tall palms to the beguiling Bay and the Croisette. We had a clear view, a table right by the solid, elegant balustrade; we gorged on exotic ice-cream sundaes and I said how very glamorous and swish it all was.

‘Which you’d like me to?’ I raised an eyebrow, but I wanted him now. I worried how casual an affair would be, not Gil’s ideal blueprint, but with Joe’s remoteness I felt starved of a sense of connection. It was good to feel lusted after and adored.

Matt leaned forward, resting an elbow on the balustrade. ‘It’s extraordinary, the human condition,’ he said. ‘I’ve survived without resorting to throwing stones at your bedroom window, without touching you all today. But right now . . .’ He caught a waiter’s eye, motioned for the chit.

Matt’s lovemaking was frenzied, quick and explosive, passionate and very voluble. I thought of people having siestas in next-door rooms. He buried his head in my neck as he climbed down, panting and heaving, saying he felt dreadful about it. ‘I wanted to make it last, to take you on the journey . . .’ He kissed my fingers. ‘Can we call it a taster? Don’t talk about going, give me a moment or so.’

‘An hour, two hours, three?’ I turned to smile as he feigned shock at the slur on his manhood before falling into a deep sleep. I lay beside him in a contented daze.

I thought about Joe. With no phone at the cottage I’d rung from Nice on arrival and again yesterday from the post office in Vence, to ask after Bella. Joe hadn’t left a number where he could be reached in Chichester as he’d promised. I was angry. Miss Hadley needed to be able to call.

I was sad to feel so little guilt; was I so hardened and brash, so removed from the days of feeling love and devotion, a simple belief that our marriage was for life? Joe had affairs and the bottle; I had affairs too, now, and my work. But there was Bella.

I made a decision lying beside Matt. Now, while Bella was so little, was the time for a trial separation. I could go to New York, find an apartment; see if Miss Hadley was willing to come. I’d put it to Joe when we were home. How he’d react, I had no idea.

I slipped out of a bed that felt impersonal and transitory in the way of hotels and went to the bathroom to wash. ‘My God, where have you gone?’ Matt called out. He appeared at the door of the sumptuous bathroom looking dishevelled, freckled and nakedly keen; he dropped down on his knees, parted my legs and began doing what he’d said he’d wanted to, taking me on the journey rather beautifully.

I was back at the Villa Laurier-Rose by seven and doubted that my parents would imagine how I’d spent the afternoon. I mentioned exploring, idling over a Knickerbocker Glory, and left it there. I’d told Matt my time was with them now, that I’d see him on our last night, at dinner at the Colombe d’Or.

I took Mum and Dad to the village and to see the starkly simple chapel in Vence, designed by Matisse as a thank you to the nuns who’d nursed him back to health. I prayed that Dad’s own health would hold; he had a little colour and looked refreshed.

On our last evening Mum, overwhelmed by the beauty, the food, the art, simply couldn’t thank Matt enough. Her happiness was a joy. She’d wanted to eat early to see that Dad had a decent night’s sleep before the flight and insisted they went back to the house first, by taxi so that we could linger over our wine. Matt immediately booked a room. He was lucky to get one.

Joe slept through Bella’s breakfast-time, all the banged spoons, demanding wails and kerfuffle. I looked in on him before leaving and he turned over in bed and squinted open an eye. ‘You off? Isn’t it your birthday today, the wifey? Want to go to the Trat tonight?’

I was impressed he’d remembered. ‘Sounds good. Thanks, darling, I’d love to.’

I’d been back from France three weeks. Terraced hillsides in the South of France seemed light years away. Joe had been in Chichester much of the time and was only home now for three days. He’d returned Sunday, gone out Monday, ‘seeing friends’ and crept into bed at about four. I hadn’t had a chance to talk about separation.

A birthday supper, people-spotting at Trattoria Terrazza, was hardly the time, but Joe was due back in Chichester next day. He half-turned to squint at me again, looking sunken-eyed and sickly green. ‘God, my head! It’ll take a few hairs of the dog, egg-nogs, Fernet Branca or whatever, but I’ll be the life and soul on the wifey’s night out, you’ll see.’

But Joe wasn’t on form at the restaurant, still looking lousy. He picked up with a few glasses of vino, though, and banter with the cheery waiters in their Neapolitan fishermen’s jerseys; the Trat was his sort of in place. Mario had given us a table in Enzo Apicella’s Positano room too, where it all happened. David Bailey and Jean Shrimpton were there, David Niven and Terence Stamp – whom I knew slightly and whose looks turned me on no end. I waited till Joe was on a second bottle and our fritto misto and pollo sorpresa had been served with panache, then took a breath.

‘This mightn’t seem the time or place, but I want to talk seriously about our future.’ Joe rolled his eyes. ‘I think we need a break from each other, a friendly trial separation. You’ve been very hard to live with, Joe, you’ve been violent at times and I worry what the drink is doing to you. If I just went away for three months . . .’

‘It might help.’ He yawned, which wasn’t over-encouraging. ‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘You want me to run round Hyde Park, lick the booze and get a job as a bank clerk.’

‘Yes and no. I want us to be together, Joe, here, there, anywhere, but with you as a more loving, less sodden husband. Swanning off wouldn’t come into it then.’

Joe shrugged. ‘So go, if that’s how the mood takes you. Maybe it’s not such a bad wheeze. I’ll try to shape up and sort myself out a bit in the allotted time.’

‘Oh, Joe, would you really?’ My eyes were moist. I blinked hard, feeling a rush of love and hope. ‘It means me taking Bella, of course, and Miss Hadley if she’ll agree; renting an apartment too, since we obviously couldn’t stay with the Ferrones.’

Joe stared. He hadn’t factored that in. ‘No. Forget it, just forget it.’ He downed his wine.

‘Think how much you actually see her, love,’ I pleaded, ‘not even once a week. She’s still a baby, it really is the best time. She won’t remember when she’s three, four, five . . .’

Joe fidgeted and turned away, attracted a waiter and ordered more wine. Facing me again he looked sullen and almost ready to cry. He gave me a cold stare. ‘I’d want to come to see her. Is that allowed?’ The wine arrived, presented with a waiterly flourish, and we both beamed. ‘Well, here’s to separation and the wifey’s birthday,’ Joe said, only slightly sardonically, when we were alone again. ‘Sorry about no present and all that . . .’

I was smiling, crying, tears dripping noiselessly, while Joe drank quantities, rubbernecked, and called hi to a friend.

I rented a mid-town apartment on East 48th Street from a rich Greek living in London, who fancied me a bit and was prepared to let me have it cheap. ‘It’s only free till mid-January,’ he said, ‘so you’re neatly filling a gap.’

Miss Hadley, after initial sniffy dubiousness, was quite excited about going. ‘Fancy me,’ she said. ‘I never expected to see New York in my lifetime. My sister’s very jealous.’

‘You won’t know anyone at first,’ I warned, ‘and it’s a fair distance from Central Park.’

‘I like to walk. Will we buy the pram out there?’ It was a reminder of all I had to do.

We settled into the apartment, glad of the friendly doorman and good living space, which was soon covered with toys. Miss Hadley was delighted when a second-hand shop yielded a British Silver Cross pram. It helped to make up for her disgust at the grime, the people pushing past without apology, the total strangers who, conversely, struck up a conversation. She loved Bloomingdale’s, couldn’t believe how fast people talked, and was fascinated by the drugstore and deli scene. She and the doorman, Herman, passed a lot of the time of day together, with much cooing over Bella on his part.

I plunged into work. Eileen Ford had it all lined up, bookings, go-sees; I needn’t have worried. I worked with Penn on a Johnson & Johnson baby ad. Penn had booked twenty babies, and the minute one cried, he’d call out calmly, ‘Next baby, please.’ He was immune to the bedlam in the outer office, screaming infants and twenty mothers who all wanted their darlings to star.

I called Gil and felt the old fluttering ache deep inside. His voice did it, the loving inflections, the layer of feeling behind the arsing around and casual-sex chat. He was extremely keen to do mother and baby pictures. ‘Come with Bella, this Friday evening, and bring her minder along. Then when we’re done you can put ’em in a cab and stay on a while.’

I wrote a long letter to Joe, begging him to think about treatment. I’d given him another small loan before leaving and knew he’d had a much larger one from an impresario fan. How he had got into so much debt was a mystery to me. Gaming clubs? Was that where he went to, so late at night?

I called Matt and left a message with his office, giving the apartment telephone number, but he hadn’t rung in two days. I was surprised.

He was full of apologies when he did. ‘Great to hear you! I was out of town. I can’t get to New York for a bit – you coming to Washington any time?’

‘The Ormsby-Gores have asked me, but not till next month. Are you here sooner?’

I got the message; he was winding me down. It had been all about the chase and winning through. That had been my first thought, meeting him, yet having begun to believe that he genuinely cared, my own feelings had grown stronger. It was desperately hard to take. My heart was thudding, I felt really let down and upset.

‘Sounds like you’re pretty busy, Matt,’ I said, cooling my tone. ‘Thanks again about the cottage, my parents had a blissful rest.’

It hurt a lot. Like hell he’d been out of town – his office had said he was in conference with the Press Secretary. Matt clearly didn’t go in for serious relationships, not with me at least. His outpouring of passion in New York, devouring kisses, beautiful declarations on transatlantic calls, the ‘spontaneous’ offer of the cottage in France – it had all been to one end: to lay me and chalk up another scalp. He’d probably made a bet with his mate who had the apartment in New York.

The hurt went further than pride. I’d been longing to see him, having fallen for him in the end and gone happily to bed with him in Cannes. He’d invested a lot of effort, broken me in like a horse and made me docile, but one more for his stable and nothing more. And the pleasure he’d given my parents? Whatever the opportunistic motives, he’d done some good and a kindness there, I had to hand him that. I wondered if he’d ever call; I felt physically in need of him and hated myself abjectly for it.

Janet, my model friend, told me to give him the finger. ‘You’re separated, Susannah. You can get stuck in, join the creeps at their game. You’re on the Pill, aren’t you?’

‘Yep, came out with a three months’ supply,’ I said, thinking back to Gil’s wry amusement that I’d got as far as a bed in his loft with no protection. The Pill hadn’t been available then, it was a Dutch cap or relying on the man.

I went a bit wild in Manhattan, trying to dull the hurt of Matt. It wasn’t Janet’s influence, more a souring inside, disillusion, despair at my failure to find love and trust. Men made advances non-stop. Most were married, but never let on, and I felt desperately disenchanted. Gil was a married man, true, and a flagrant womaniser, yet he was probably the most honest man I knew.

The husband of a fashion editor at Vogue chased me as persistently as Matt; he’d be in his car outside a studio, say he was waiting for his wife, but had time to give me a lift. I’d accepted at first, though soon wised up. I was in agonies one day when his wife picked up my little red address book that I’d inadvertently left by the studio phone. She stared so long and hard at a page that I knew she’d seen her husband’s number, innocently written in once, when they’d invited me out to Long Island for a lunch party. Her pensive gaze was hard to bear. She left the book open at the page, but couldn’t mention it without admitting to snooping. I was surprised that she ever booked me again.

I had a whacky affair with another photographer, a gorgeous six-foot-something hunk called Dale. His thatch of hair was a triumph, blond as straw from the bottle of peroxide he frequently tipped over it, and with an impressive layer of dark roots. He wasn’t married, he said, and his apartment had the bare boards and lack of furniture to back that up, but who knew? I’d lost all ability to trust.

Dale took me away on a couple of working trips and his enthusiasm was catching. ‘Ace!’ he’d say, scrunching me into his side, pointing out a handsome crescent in Boston where I’d been to with Gil. ‘Ace architecture, just ace, the symmetry, the elegance!’ I adored him. ‘You’ve turned up the volume on my life,’ he said once, ‘way high!’

He had colourful turns of phrase. ‘Never squat with your spurs on,’ was his take on watching your back, and he’d stand in his boxers in front of the television and jab at some hapless politician. ‘He’s the kinda creep who can cry out of one eye.’

Bert Stern featured in my life, too. He was into pot and more adult fixes, but I was for the foothills and didn’t go there. He photographed me for Vogue covers. We did one with large, sunny flower heads pinned to a strapless bra, and my bare midriff held his eye. It was how we got to know each other.

Friends from London passed through. Ludo Kennedy, the writer and broadcaster, was one. He’d heard from Joe that I was in New York, called me and we went to see Tom Courtenay in The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner. Afterwards we ate at his hotel, discussed the gritty film, Courtenay’s genius, and talked far into the night.

We had a new Prime Minister and I said, curious, ‘I miss not seeing the British press with Alec Douglas Home taking over. I know you’re a Liberal, but what do you think?’

‘He was a good Foreign Secretary, at least. Of course, all bets had been on Rab Butler. It was a surprise.’

‘Cecil Beaton was funny about that when I worked with him before coming here,’ I said. ‘He really didn’t fancy Mr Butler. “Just imagine that dull, plain, bulbous face on our television screens every night,” he said with a wicked eye. He does love a little bitch!’

I asked Ludo about a shocking report on the news earlier in the evening – Adlai Stevenson, the UN Ambassador, being booed, spat at and hit with a stick in Dallas.

‘It’s Kennedy’s focus on civil rights,’ Ludo said, ‘and his hints over pulling out of Vietnam. The extremists and Southern racists can’t handle it. They’re in revolt.’

‘It’s dreadful. I read about all these radical groups – there’s even one called the National Indignation Convention trying to get the entire Texas Democratic Party to defect to the Republicans. And to think Jack’s going campaigning there next month.’

‘He needs to, though; he can’t win in sixty-four if he loses Texas, especially if he dumps Johnson from the ticket as he wants to. There’s the rest of the South as well.’

‘I’m off to Washington tomorrow,’ I said, reluctantly parting from Ludo, ‘having a weekend with the Ormsby-Gores. I don’t suppose there’ll be much talk of this, but you’ve helped me to feel more primed. Thanks. I really must go, but it’s been great.’

I caught the five o’clock shuttle to Washington, which put Matt powerfully in mind. He’d called, but only to say that he couldn’t make the supper party with the Ferrones. I hadn’t even known he’d been asked. Joan must have wanted it to be a small surprise. I’d written to her about my father, so she knew quite a bit.

Having thought about Matt the whole way on the plane, I discovered he was asked to lunch next day – Sylvia Ormsby-Gore doing a Joan Ferrone.

It was hard to handle, a struggle sitting next to him, chatting politely – especially when over the coffee he suggested a spin in his car. I didn’t do well, saying with a panicky heart that I’d love that, completely failing to act with any suitable dignity.

But going to bed with Matt that Saturday afternoon ended up being good for me. It was flat, mechanical, meaningless. I felt unloving, unclean, and knew it was closure, an upper and downer in my life and nothing more. ‘So long, Matt,’ I said, as he drove me zippily back to the Residence. ‘It’s been nice knowing you.’

‘I wanted to ask after your father,’ he said, absorbing the finality of my words and not quite ready, it seemed, to let go of a not-so-bad occasional lay. ‘How’s he doing?’

Dad had occasional angina chest pains, but he was being sensible and Mum wanted me to carry on as normal and see through the separation time. I was going along with that while saying a quiet prayer now and then.

Over drinks that evening, David Ormsby-Gore told me he was going to see Bobby Kennedy next day and we were all invited, children as well. ‘Ours wouldn’t be noticed anyway, in that ear-splitting madhouse. We could bring them and leave them there!’

Bobby and Ethel Kennedy lived at Hickory Hill which, like the White House, was large, white and handsomely proportioned. It had silver-grey shutters and immaculate front lawns where a tall flagpole proudly fluttered its Stars and Stripes flag. There were no Secret Servicemen to be seen as we trooped up to the front door. A maid hoovering in the hall let us in and David led the way purposefully through the house and out to the garden. He knew the form.

It was a boiling day, well into the 80s, and everyone was outdoors, back from church and letting off steam. Children were everywhere, racing and wrestling, rolling down the vast sloping lawns; a small boy was sailing up wildly high on a rickety rope swing. The branch it hung from was creaking ominously, but nobody seemed bothered. An older boy careered about in a Hot-Red Go-Kart, upsetting a horse in an adjacent field. Bobby was out in the garden too, wearing a yellow sweatshirt and pink trousers, leaning forward in a deckchair and talking on a telephone brought out from the house on an extended lead. He was concentrating intently and seemed undistracted by the noise.

Ethel appeared, followed by a maid carrying a tray of drinks, just as the black Labrador by Bobby’s side shot off after a squirrel. There was a near collision, yet even that seemed to pass the master of the house by. He absently patted the panting dog on its return, putting his hand over the mouthpiece then, but only to yell out, I wasn’t sure at whom, ‘Get him, get him!’ He indicated to David to pull up another deckchair and carried on with his call.

When David and Bobby, the British Ambassador and the President’s brother, had finished their murmured chat they rounded everyone up for a game of touch football. I was in a fog of incomprehension, being manhandled, childhandled, yelled at to run, to watch out, but exhilarated and enjoying it like mad. When a child shrieked triumphantly, ‘Gotcha!’ and I was out, Bobby came to sit with me on a bench.

I fell in love instantly. He talked about Neil Simon’s Barefoot in the Park, just opened on Broadway. ‘It’ll be a smash hit. People love all that witty schmaltzy humour and happy-endings.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘I don’t think it’ll be one of those in South Africa this week, with the Nelson Mandela trial; they stifle any breath of free speech out there, let alone political dissent.’

‘Unlike America, where no one holds back,’ I said, thinking of the UN Ambassador’s treatment in Dallas and the piece in the newspapers about crude anti-Kennedy Wanted for Treason pamphlets being scattered round town the next day. ‘It must give you particular headaches of security at times,’ I ventured, with a cautious smile.

‘Yes, sure, and some places are worse than others, but that’s politics – campaigning and facing your critics!’ Bobby smiled in return and ruffled his unruly hair, reducing me to an ever more adoring pool. ‘You have to take the flak.’

We talked on and it was a wrench when the time came to leave. My heart had been fluttering like the flag on Bobby and Ethel’s front lawn.

I was in Lillian Bassman’s studio when the President was shot. Sitting in a bath in a strapless bathing suit, a head and shoulders photograph, a cosmetics ad; the futile incongruity of that got to me. Lillian had the radio on and we’d caught the first bulletin, United Press saying that three shots had been fired and the wounds could be fatal. We listened, stunned, as more details began to filter through. Lillian, who was visibly moved, motioned me out of the bath.

‘I think we’ll call it a day,’ she said. ‘I can’t carry on. Everyone can go home.’

The account executive had left by the time I was dressed. I stood by the radio, tensed for news, needing to keep listening, to hear that Jack would live. It was terrible, frighteningly extra-dimensional too, having talked and laughed with him and seen his private face. ‘Sorry, I should go,’ I said, embarrassed at hanging around. ‘I just . . .’ I waved the air with a helpless hand, unable to explain.

‘You don’t need to,’ Lillian said, ‘but it’ll be on television soon, I expect. Do you have a set where you’re staying? You may prefer to watch than listen here.’

It made sense to get back to 48th Street, to Bella and Miss Hadley, and leave Lillian to her privacy. I admired her all the more, seeing her emotion, and left the studio fortified by her dignity. I wasn’t anxious for a taxi driver’s take on the shooting and walked the ten blocks down Third Avenue to the apartment. A curious hush had descended, as though a heavy snowstorm had blanketed the city, muffling the traffic and muting the horns. Few people were about; sparse huddles had formed round newsstands, although no news-sheets could surely have arrived. One stand had a radio on behind the counter, but it was hard to catch anything and I walked on.

Miss Hadley had the television tuned to CBS, and as I came in Walter Cronkite was saying, stumbling over his words, ‘Two priests who were with Kennedy say, apparently, that he is dead from his bullet wounds.’ Cronkite stressed that the President’s death wasn’t officially confirmed, but from his tone there was little doubt. It was 2.30 p.m. New York time, an hour since the first bulletin.

Cronkite talked about fearful concerns of demonstrations similar to the attack on Adlai Stevenson. When a paper was placed before him, the official news, he had to take off his glasses to blink away the emotion.

‘Awful, awful,’ Miss Hadley muttered. Bella was sleeping longer than usual, almost as though with an unconscious sense that it was helpful, and we watched in a daze. Miss Hadley sensitively didn’t intrude. She took Bella out for a walk eventually, telling me to stay by the screen, that I’d known him and must want to be alone.

I thought of Jackie, spattered with blood and brain, crying out, ‘Oh no!’ I thought of Bobby Kennedy in Washington, how close he’d been to his brother. I thought of the unendurable pain. I imagined the news spreading ever more widely like spilt ink, and the differing reactions around the world.

Lyndon Johnson was sworn in as President aboard Air Force One at Love Field in Dallas in stifling conditions, we were later told. Twenty-seven people had had to squeeze into the plane’s small stateroom with the air conditioning shut down for a speedy take-off.

At six that evening the new President and Jackie touched down in Washington. Bobby boarded the plane to escort Jackie off and when she and Bobby appeared they descended from the plane holding hands. She was still in her blood and matter-stained pink Chanel suit. Her legs, too, were still smeared with the shocking stains of her husband’s blood.

I’d thought of the Ferrones at the time, how close Walter had been to Jackie, and wondered if he’d been in touch. I’d commiserated, but hadn’t probed. Shortly before I was due to go home, though, when Joan and I were having a farewell omelette supper together, she began to talk about Jackie. Joan was always one for going into detail.

‘Walter spoke to her just after Jack’s death,’ she recalled. ‘Jackie had refused to change out of that pink suit, you know? “I wanted them to see what they’d done to Jack,” she said – and she’d also refused to leave without Jack’s body on board the plane. It caused a terrible rumpus apparently, as it was against the wishes of the Dallas Medical Examiner; he’d insisted an autopsy was required and had been furious.

‘She sure has guts, that girl!’ Joan burst out. ‘She told us how proud of the children she’d felt at the funeral – and on the very day of poor little John’s third birthday, can you believe?’ Joan paused, overcome, and wiped away a tear. ‘President Johnson was kind, it seems, despite the tricky relations between them, calling, telling Jackie to stay at the White House as long as she wanted. Even saying she should come right on over, have a good cry and he’d “put his arms around her”. She told us all about it.’

Joan, in her emotional mood, asked about Joe and the separation, what I felt about going home and whether I’d seen much of Matt Seeley. That was a fishing question; she felt involved, eager to know where we were at.

‘Matt’s for a good time, not for anything serious,’ I said, glad to feel a vacuum where black heartache had been. ‘It’s as well really.’ Joan squeezed my hand, she understood. ‘I’ve had one or two dates, though’ – only a small understatement – ‘one with an English guy, passing through. Max Thorsby, he’s called. He’s very beautiful and aristocratic, attentive without pushing it. He’s one of these impecunious younger sons of a lord, his father’s the Earl of Wickham.’ I smiled at Joan’s open-mouthed interest, but didn’t want her making a meal of it and I was keen to talk about Joe. He’d been in touch after a long silence and made me feel quietly hopeful.

‘Joe says he’s getting on top of things, Joan. I do hope so. It would make everything possible again if only he’d just settle into some sort of vague routine. I know regular life is a bit much to expect!’

Joan looked down at her manicured nails and back at me with a long face. ‘Now this is your Manhattan Mom talking, Susannah dearest. Don’t expect honey and apple pie when you get home. In my experience, people are what they are. Joe needs his kicks and I’d say he always will; I’d hate you to be too let down. I just want my girl to be happy.’

‘Oh, Joany!’ I burst into tears. She came round the table and gave me a long hug and cuddle, smoothing back my hair. She and Walter would miss me so very much, she said.

Landing home, early morning on 13 January 1964, the temperature hadn’t squeaked above freezing. It had snowed the day before, not much, but Miss Hadley and I, both worn out from the journey, felt chilled through. Joe had promised to come to meet us. He was excited, he’d said, at the thought of seeing Bella.

He wasn’t there. We waited and waited. I phoned home. No answer – he’d probably overslept, early mornings weren’t his strong suit. Eventually, after an hour, we gave up and took a taxi. I had a bleak sinking feeling, hope snatched away like a cap in a blast of cold wind.

Joe wasn’t at home. Most of his clothes were gone, Frankie’s cage, too. The house was quite clean, which pleased Miss Hadley who looked desperately fatigued, older than her undisclosed years. I ordered her to bed and talked baby talk to Bella who was toddling about exploring. I needed her distracted, though, and gave her a Laughing Cow cheese triangle to nibble on while I read the two notes I’d found.

One, under a bowl on the kitchen table, was from Palmira, my warm-hearted Spanish help. Her writing was uneven and spidery, crawling over a scrap of lined paper.

Hallo Mrs Susann. I clean house. I take Franky at home. He Lonely. Mr Joe – he go. I come Tuday. I see you? My Spanish wouldn’t have been half as good.

The other note, on the hall table, was written on Basildon blue paper, not Joe’s fancy engraved stuff.

Guess you’re home now, wifey, if you’re reading this. I’m taking a break, a three-week holiday. It seemed like a good idea, as I haven’t been feeling that great. Frankie will need a good clean-up, the old squawker, and some chatting-up, as he’s been on his own quite a bit. I may not come back properly, but will want to see Bella, of course. Not sure what I’ll do: move to the country, near the sea: bucket and spade – or possibly go to California: Hollywood and the movies. I’ll send a PC. Joe.’

A tear plopped onto the paper. I sniffed and folded the note over and over, tucked it away carefully in the zip pocket of my handbag. Was it for the best? I thought of the wretched hour at the airport, Bella grizzling, with a stab of anger. He could have let us know. Was Joe ill? Was I being unfair? A sense of weary shame overtook me, deep sadness at the utter failure of my life, shame at the past wild three months.

Bella was at the stair gate and I chased after her. ‘Upstairs we go, angel,’ I said. ‘Let’s get you changed first, then we’ll wrap up warm and go out for some food for lunch.’

I called Joe’s agent, who said he’d gone to the Bahamas – an invitation to stay with friends, she thought. January work was slow.

A month later I heard his key turning in the door. He’d come to see Bella, and looking at him, his tan, I felt any so-called illness was on hold. And when the glamorous invitations dried up? My anger was momentary. I knew Joe’s moods, knew his depression would always dog him and return. Could I have helped more, done more? It was too late now, Joe had chosen to go it alone.

He played with Bella and asked suspiciously after Frankie. ‘Palmira took him home when you’d gone, and her husband, Fernando, wants to keep him now. He’s teaching Frankie Spanish! I said I’d have to ask you first.’

‘I think I must file for divorce, Joe.’ He stared at me hard, with cold, hurt eyes. Then he shrugged again and turned away.

The divorce was misery. I had to tell my solicitor about Gil; Joe had to go to a hotel with a woman and be seen by a chambermaid. It was a farce, but it was the law.

Dad had another heart attack, there was no treatment and it was unbearable news. He was advised that if he stayed in bed, stopped smoking and ate fat-free foods he could have a few more months, maybe six. My life was crumbling, tumbling. I drove up and down to Dorset. I wanted my father to live. It was heartbreaking and I clung to Mum.

I worked, but had lost every scrap of confidence and felt bruised, scarred and bleeding. I was a free woman by July, yet it left me with a sense of empty nothingness; I felt vulnerable, all too aware, with Bella to support, that modelling was ephemeral and would inevitably give me up in time.

By September, beautiful blond Max Thorsby was in my life, repairing my battered morale, surprising me with lavish gifts, making me feel he was proud of me and pleased to show me off to his friends. They lived in vast houses and ran family estates; Max dealt in antiques and lived in a rambling, slightly gloomy flat in Kensington.

By November we were married. I’d rented out my house and moved in with him a month before. Miss Hadley, who loved babies, had gone – after a fond parting – to be nanny to a newborn boy. Bella was going to a smart little morning playgroup and we’d moved smoothly on to au pairs.

My father was managing, saying he felt fine, so Max and I honeymooned in Portugal for a few days. Max popped out from the hotel one evening; he’d bumped into an old mate, he said, and was going for a jar. He was back at six in the morning. On our honeymoon? Was it hopeless naïvety to have yearned for marital perfection?

A month into our marriage I knew he had lovers, lots and lots of them. Max loved me, too. He never put me down, never stopped spoiling me, and I had the joy of Bella – but I wasn’t built to be one of a crowd. What was going to happen? Would I be able to stay the course?

It was hard to stare facts in the face. Rushing into marrying again hadn’t been the wisest of moves. My life at twenty-four was stricken, poised for loss and sadness, and it wasn’t turning out, for a second time, to be the marital bed of roses of my dreams.

Chapter 23