ALBAN BERG WAS COMPOSER of the Week the day that Polly’s husband went off with Fiona.
The day started like any other. Paul had risen early but this was not unusual. He was in the habit of waking at about six o’clock, making coffee and vanishing into his study to put in a few hours’ work before he went off to the university. Two or three times each week he and Polly didn’t see each other until the evening, for she found mornings difficult. The thought of light conversation across the muesli was anathema to her; the bleared eye above the stubble was inimical to her well-being so early in the day. Apart from which she doubted that Paul would have noticed her presence since he tended to spend breakfast time with his head in a book, his eyes rarely lifted from the printed page.
By the time Polly arrived downstairs, on the day in question, Radio Three was well into Berg and the kitchen showed the usual signs of disorder. Automatically she began to clear the table and saw, mid-yawn, the note propped against the butter dish.
Paul’s tiny crabbed handwriting was almost illegible and broken phrases presented themselves to Polly’s dazed eyes. ‘. . . bit of a shock . . . can’t let her down . . . inevitable . . . be in touch . . . ’ with ‘Fiona’ scattered about at intervals like sultanas in a scone.
Polly, her nerves on edge, switched off the Seven Early Songs and wondered what to do next. What was the form when one’s husband took off with his assistant, leaving a farewell note and mentioning in passing that he’d be in touch?
She looked again at the note. Nothing had prepared her for it, no warning, no discussion, no opportunities to put things right. It was true that during the last two years they had tended to drift a little further apart. Polly had become deeply involved in the launching of the Percy the Parrot books and had encouraged Thea through her pregnancy and the birth of her daughter, Amelia. She knew that this was living life rather vicariously through someone else’s achievements and joys but it was harmless and fun and Paul seemed to be spending more and more time wrapped up in his work. There had been no rows or arguments and he had accepted with total equanimity her friendship with Freddie. It had, so far, been a perfectly harmless friendship just as she had imagined Paul’s had been with Fiona. Perhaps she had been naïve but Paul didn’t seem to have the temperament of a deceiver. And how very odd of him to come to such an important decision about their marriage all in a rush, between, as it were, one insect and the next! But what was in his mind for the future? What did he intend? Obviously he intended that she, Polly, should stay put while he sorted his life out with Fiona. Then, no doubt, he would ‘be in touch.’
Polly felt a sudden surge of anger. She’d be damned if she would sit here, tamely waiting to hear what had been planned for her and how her future had been organised! Leaving the table in its disorder, she gathered up the note and went upstairs. A recce of Paul’s dressing room showed that he had taken verv little with him. His weekend bag had gone and his shaving things from the bathroom but she saw from the bedroom window that the car stood in its usual place by the kerb. She also saw Mrs Bloge coming down the road. This solved one problem. Nothing useful could be attempted with her in the house. Polly couldn’t have borne for her to know. She hurried round collecting her keys, bag and jacket and went back downstairs.
‘Can’t stop this morning, Mrs Bloge,’ she called. ‘Got to dash. Shan’t be back till after lunch. See you next week.’
‘What about me wages?’ Mrs Bloge issued from the kitchen, heavy with disapproval.
‘Heavens!’ Polly gave a feeble laugh. ‘Yes, of course, it’s Friday, isn’t it?’
She scrabbled in her purse, brought out the amount in the back section which was designated ‘Bloge’ and, passing it over, hurried out into the bleak January day. A few yards up the road, she turned in at the gate of a semi-detached villa almost identical to her own but in rather better repair. Round the side of the house she went, through the back door and into the kitchen.
‘Hi,’ she shouted. ‘Hello. Only me. Anyone in?’
She could hear scufflings and voices off and, in the upper regions of the house, the sound of a French horn. The inner door opened and her friend Suzy appeared, a small child growing out of her hip like a Siamese twin and another clinging to her leg. She came in, dragging the leg with the child on it.
‘Thank goodness it’s you,’ she said with her sweet smile. ‘Simon is having one of his insecure days and Daniel’s got a bit of a temperature. Put the kettle on, there’s a duck.’
‘Jake’s home, I hear.’ Polly jerked her head French horn wards and went to fill the kettle.
‘He’s got a concert in Bristol next week.’ Suzy laid the smaller child in a carrycot on the sofa under the window and swung Simon up and into his high chair at the table. He clung to her as if she were a lifebelt and he a drowning man. Polly knew just how he felt.
‘Paul’s left me.’ She couldn’t keep it back another second.
‘Paul? Left you?’
Even Simon, sensing drama, let go of Suzy and gazed at Polly.
‘He’s gone off with Fiona.’
‘With Fiona?’
‘He left me a note. On the table.’
‘Left a note?’
Polly looked around for the echo whilst Suzy thrust a plastic drinking mug into Simon’s open but unresisting mouth and gave Polly her undivided attention.
‘I don’t believe it. It doesn’t sound a bit like Paul. He doesn’t like women. And with Fiona of all people.’
‘Why “of all people”? If he’s going to run off with anyone surely she’s the most likely candidate? They have masses in common, she’s young, pretty . . . ’
Saying the words made the situation a great deal more real and, quite suddenly, Polly began to howl. Loudly and luxuriously, she broke down and howled without restraint.
Simon took his mug out of his mouth and his face began to crumple. Ominous noises came from the carrycot. Even the French horn stopped. So did Polly. She couldn’t face an irate Jake roaring in demanding, ‘What the bloody hell is going on now ? Can’t I ever get to practise in peace?’ and so on.
Suzy soothed the baby and replaced Simon’s mug whilst Polly sniffed and snuffled and tried to pull herself together. After a moment. Suzy pushed a mug under her nose. Polly gave her the note to read and morosely piled sugar into her mug.
‘What dreadful writing,’ observed Suzy. ‘He should have been a doctor.’
‘He is a doctor.’
‘You know what I mean—a real doctor. I can’t read a word of this.’ She screwed up her eyes, turning the paper this way and that, and passed it back. ‘I’ll take your word for it. What are you going to do?’
‘I’ve no idea. There’s no address, no telephone number. He doesn’t seem to have taken verv much with him and the car’s still there. I think I’m supposed to sit and wait until he contacts me. At the end it says “be in touch”. I don’t know what to do.’ Polly felt like blubbing again but the French horn was back in full flood and Simon had a glazed look, so she didn’t like to. She took a huge swig from the mug and choked violently.
‘Jesus!’ she spluttered. ‘What the hell is this?’ She coughed frenziedly.
‘It’s wild raspberry tea. It’s very good for stress.’ Suzy once again patted the baby and restored Simon’s mug. Luckily the French horn hadn’t been disturbed this time. ‘Listen, I’ve had an idea.’
‘So have L’ Polly held the mug out. ‘I’d like some coffee.’
‘Know what I think?’ Suzy ignored her. ‘I think it would be a very bad idea to sit waiting for Paul to take all the decisions. You’re always so easy-going. And he seems to spend half his spare time in the lab with Fiona. Let’s face it. You’ve handed it to him on a plate. I expect she flatters him and it’s gone to his head. I can’t believe it’s serious.’
‘But what can I do?’
‘I don’t know. Anything. Visit friends. Get a dog. Have a haircut. Get a job. Anything. It doesn’t matter so much what you do as long as you do something. You don’t want to sit about moping, do you?’
‘Yes,’ said Polly, sulkily. ‘As it happens, I do. I think it’s intolerable that he should explode this bombshell and then expect me to wait patiently until he decides to get in touch. I want to sit and think about it and realise how much I hate him. And her.’
‘It’s a pity you haven’t got children,’ mused Suzy, ignoring this excursion into self-pity. ‘Children keep you occupied, stop you thinking too much. It’s a mistake to do anything dramatic. Mmm. Yes. Perhaps a dog’s a bit much and jobs aren’t that easy to come by but at least you can go and get your hair done. It will keep your morale up and make you feel better. Now will you go?’
Polly shrugged. She felt that her problem was being made light of and she didn’t want to make it too easy. ‘I might.’
‘After all, it’s a start, isn’t it? There’s a super place just off Queen Street I go to when life gets too much for me. Hang on, I’ll see if I can make an appointment with Tony for you.’
‘Who’s Tony?’ Polly asked listlessly.
‘He’s the owner. He does my hair. Hang on.’
She went into the hall and Polly heard the telephone being used. Simon stirred in his chair and she eyed him cautiously. Sometimes she could deal with him, sometimes not. Simon and Suzy had a real Oedipus and Jocasta thing going and Polly simply wasn’t in the mood for it. She gave him a biscuit. He placed it carefully on the tray of his high chair and proceeded to smash it into crumbs with his mug. Fair enough. Polly shrugged. At least it was keeping him quiet.
‘Great!’ Suzy came in beaming. ‘He’s had a cancellation and he can fit you in at twelve o’clock. I’ll tell you where he is. You’ve simply got to stay positive! I remember when Jake had a thing with a violinist, I just kept going, did my own thing. He soon packed it in. You remember? That’s when we started Daniel. He was our reconciliation. I’m sure that this is just a flash in the pan. Don’t weaken. That’s the great thing.’
Polly sighed. The last thing she needed was bracing talks and raspberry tea. If only there had been time to telephone Harriet or Thea. She stood up and collected her things. At least she might get a decent cup of coffee at the hairdresser’s.
THE SALON WAS MORE like a bistro than a hairdressing establishment. The walls were whitewashed stone, the lighting flattering, and at one end people drinking coffee sat on painted wooden chairs at scrubbed pine tables. A large blackboard hung on the wall listing exotic dishes and there was a little bar in one corner.
Polly announced herself to the receptionist, who looked about twelve, and the girl vanished through a curtain at the back, no doubt in order to summon Tony. Polly looked around; there were only two basins, cleverly concealed in an alcove, and two padded chairs, set at angles away from each other, before huge mirrors with heavy wooden frames.
‘You must be Polly!’
Polly swung round. Tony was an old Harrovian, tall and tanned— he was just back from a skiing holiday in Austria—with blond hair cut short around his ears and neck but left long on top. He wore his old school tie round the collar of a cream raw silk shirt which was tucked into green cords.
‘Hello.’ They shook hands. ‘And you must be Tony.’
‘Absolutely. Suzy told me what happened and I think that it’s very brave of you to come.’
‘Suzy told you? On the phone?’ Polly was shocked.
Tony ushered her to one of the chairs. ‘Certainly. Very sensible of her. Then we all know where we are, you see. The thing is to take your mind off things until you’ve calmed down a bit. Amazing the things that people do when they’ve had a shock. Now then.’
He lifted bits of her hair and rubbed them in his fingers, staring at her in the mirror with narrowed eyes.
‘All this off, I think. Yes? Short, straight, sleek. Yes?’
‘My husband likes it long,’ protested Polly feebly, huddling nervously in her chair and still feeling unsettled by the fact that this stranger knew all about her private life.
‘My dear girl'—Tony bent close and their eyes met in the mirror-’does that matter in your present circumstances?’
Polly stared at him mesmerised. He gave a sharp nod and called for a minion. Another girl appeared, looking even younger than the first. She was dressed from head to foot in black: black polo neck, brief black skirt, long black woollen legs, flat black pumps. She took away Polly’s jacket, wrapped her in waterproof garments and led her to one of the basins.
‘Lean back, that’s it. Head comfortable? Tell me if the water gets too hot.’
It was impossible to nod so Polly gargled assent and closed her eyes. She loved having her hair washed: the warm water, the massaging fingers, the smell of shampoo and then the warm fluffy towels. Bliss. Far too soon it was over and she was sitting once more in the padded chair. The girl smiled encouragingly at her. ‘Coffee?’ she asked.
‘Oh, yes please,’ said Polly fervently, remembering the wild raspberry tea.
Tony appeared. He combed her hair, picked up his scissors and smiled. ‘Ready?’
Polly nodded.
Polly shook her head.
‘Off we go then.’
He snipped away, twisting great swatches of hair on to the top of her head and holding them in place with enormous, brightly coloured bulldog clips. Her coffee came. It was delicious and she drank it quietly, co-ordinating with his cutting so that she didn’t spill any. Presently he laid aside his scissors and went to work with a hairdryer and brush. A woman came to sit in the other chair and a very superior girl started to perform the same sort of rites upon her. It was all very peaceful and relaxing and, try though she might, Polly couldn’t bring her mind to concentrate on the disaster that had befallen her.
‘There!’ Tony laid aside the tools of his trade.
Polly could barely believe her eyes. Silky shining brown hair fell smooth and sleek to her jaw line. She looked much more sophisticated but, oddly, younger. Tony swung a hand mirror to and fro behind her head so that she could see the back.
‘Amazing!’ She shook her head, lost for words. ‘You’re brilliant.’
‘Well, we all know that, lovey.’ He took away the towels, brushed her off and gestured to his minion who hurried off to find Polly’s jacket. As she followed him to the reception desk, Cass emerged from the café corner, smiled at her vaguely and then stopped in her tracks.
‘Polly! It is Polly, isn’t it? I’m Cass Wivenhoe. Remember me? Harriet brought you over to lunch and then we met at Thea’s. And then at Hugh’s christening. How are vou?’
‘Not at all well at the moment,’ Tony answered for Polly. ‘Her husband’s run away with his assistant, silly man, and Polly’s all of a doodah, poor duck.’ Polly was horrified. She glared at Tony, who winked back at her as he passed her the bill. ‘She needs to be taken out and given a good lunch.’
‘My dear.’ Cass was staring at her in consternation. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry . . . ’
‘Please.’ Polly searched for her chequebook, blushing furiously. ‘Honestly . . . ’ She began to write the cheque as though her life depended on it.
Cass’s eyes met Tony’s questioningly and he gave a little nod.
‘Well, look. Why not?’ Cass rose swiftly to the occasion. ‘I’ve had my hair done and now I’m at a loose end. I’d love it if you could spare the time. I’ve come all this way to let this terrible man have his way with my head and it seems such a pity to waste the result by driving tamely home again.’
‘The transformation I wrought on you definitely needs celebrating,’ said Tony firmly to Polly, who seemed to have lost her powers of speech.
‘He’s right!’ Cass was delighted at the suggestion. ‘And I’ve had another thought. I’m having a party tomorrow evening and it would be wonderful if you could come. Harriet and Michael will be there and Thea and George. All the old mob. We’ve been out in the States for the last two years and we’re belatedly celebrating our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. It’s a few months late but we haven’t been back long. It will be great fun! You simply must come. I absolutely insist. We’ll go and have lunch and talk about it.’
Taking Polly firmly by the arm, lest in her despair she should fling herself beneath the wheels of a passing bus, Cass swept her off into the town.
‘THE TROUBLE IS, I can’t seem to take it in.’ Polly had drunk two large gins and she was feeling loquacious and even euphoric. ‘I can’t get it into my head that he’s gone. You know? It’s like trying to meditate. Or pray. Every time you start your mind slips off somewhere else. It’s like that.’
‘Well, I think that’s a very good thing. It means that you won’t be doing anything silly in a rush. And who knows? He may feel a bit silly himself in a day or two and come hurrying back to you.’ Cass set the menu aside and waved to a passing waitress.
Polly examined this idea. To her surprise she wasn’t as pleased as she might have been at the thought of it.
‘He’s a pompous prick!’ she announced. The waitress looked surprised and Polly took another glop of gin. ‘Well, he is,’ she muttered defensively.
Cass gave their order, unmoved by this somewhat public revelation. ‘D’you know, I’ve been thinking,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you drive over this afternoon and stay with us for the whole weekend? Well, as long as you like. I think it’s a bit much for you to be stuck waiting for Paul to deign to contact you. It’ll be horrid for you. We could drive down in tandem when we’ve finished shopping. We’ll go back to your place, pick up your car and drive down to the car park to fetch mine. You can come home again when you feel like it, when you’ve pulled yourself together and got a plan of action. I don’t see why he should have it quite all his own way. Now, why don’t you? You’d be among friends and I’d love it. It’s such a dreary time of year to be on your own. What do you say?’
‘Sounds wonderful!’ Polly finished her gin and grinned broadly. She didn’t mean to but she couldn’t control her face. She could feel the grin plastered there but could do nothing about it. She rarely drank spirits and generally behaved badly when she did.
‘Good,’ Cass exclaimed. ‘Now what sort of dress for the party, I wonder?’ She looked at Polly appraisingly. Polly continued to grin. ‘Something long and elegant, I think—and stunning. Yes, definitely stunning.’
Polly pondered this suggestion but before she could ask Cass to elaborate the food arrived and the moment passed. To Polly it seemed as if they were eating for hours. Delicious food came and went and, after a bit, she felt more normal as the effect of the gin wore off. Before she could pass into the maudlin state that so often follows, however, Cass had whisked her off again.
Shopping with Cass was an experience Polly was unlikely ever to forget. In and out of shops they whirled and Polly undressed, tried on and re-dressed until, finally, Cass was satisfied.
‘You’re so slim! I really can’t think why you wear those floppy, baggy clothes. So unflattering.’
Polly stared into the looking-glass at her new image clothed in a long soft clinging garment. ‘Are you sure it’s me?’ she asked cautiously.
‘Absolutely certain!’ cried Cass firmly. ‘And while we’re here . . . ’
They left with bulging bags and took a hopper back to Polly’s house so that she could pack. She was, by now, subject to severe twinges of guilt, quite certain that this was not how abandoned wives behaved. Cass, sensing her change of mood, clung to her side barely giving her a chance to pack and reminding her to cancel the milk and papers.
After telephoning Mrs Bloge and Suzy, Polly picked up her case. ‘I’m ready,’ she said. ‘Suzy, my friend up the road, will keep an eye on things. She’s got a spare key.’
She looked round the hall—what on earth was she doing?—and then at Cass. Alarm seized her.
‘Splendid!’ Cass beamed at her. ‘Then all you need to do is look forward to a jolly weekend. I really don’t see why you shouldn’t have some fun, too.’
It was the ‘too’ that decided Polly. After all, who knew what Paul and Fiona might be up to, going off into the blue, while she had to sit alone waiting to hear her fate? Panic receded and defiance returned.
‘Neither do I,’ she said firmly.