Friends for Life Page 2
She ran her eye over him as lingeringly as if he were a prime cut of Aberdeen Angus beef, and liked increasingly what she saw. Tall enough—at five ten and a half, height could be a problem for Beth—fit without being jocklike, and, best of all, unselfconsciously well groomed as if it happened accidentally and did not involve one iota of vanity. Vanity was something she could not abide in a man; with her theatrical background, she had had enough of it to last a lifetime or two.
His voice too, she discovered, was cultured and modulated, as finely tuned as everything else about him. This, in short, was one class act. Beth wanted to know more and was frustrated when the course was served and she had to withdraw, silently and with metaphorically downcast eyes, behind the green baize door.
Just when she had given up hope Oliver redeemed himself; extraordinarily and so out of character, she was sure, that her heart leapt into her mouth and she sensed, against all the odds, that she had him on her line, however tentatively. She saw him leave, hurriedly, with his eyes on his gold Rolex, while the others were still cradling their brandy snifters and the perfume of Havana was sweet on the air, and returned silently cursing to her borrowed kitchen, sick that she hadn’t even found out his name or managed to engage him in direct eye contact.
And then, miracle of miracles, the door from the corridor had swung inward and there he was again, this time looking for her. To shake her briefly by the hand, again with that slightly distracted expression she had since learned to love, congratulate her (genuinely, she was sure) on the meal and ask if she carried a card in case he could throw some business her way. This might have been construed as patronizing but Beth didn’t see it that way. She saw only the slate-gray eyes and chiseled lips and the level stare that turned her stomach to blancmange and gave her heart palpitations she had not experienced since she first saw Springsteen performing live. She wandered home in a lust-ridden trance and spent the rest of the afternoon on the bed, listening to Streisand and thinking it must surely by now be her turn again to have a break.
It took him two weeks but he did eventually ring, and when the call came through she was up to her armpits in lamb Marrakesh and hadn’t a clue who he was. She was very nearly quite rude to him—the chef’s prerogative—but caught on just in time, smiled sweetly (over the phone), and agreed to meet him for a drink the following night at seven.
And that was where it really all began. Chemistry did the rest. Oliver was already waiting when Beth swanned in, a sophisticated twelve and a half minutes late, in a corner booth with chilled Krug in a silver cooler, his inscrutable eyes watching the door as if it really mattered whether or not she showed. She didn’t actually like champagne, preferred a single malt or even Scotch, but now was not the time to tell him. The thought was charming and positively seductive. Beth hadn’t wanted to appear too eager so had settled for a black suede wraparound skirt with a plain silk shirt and, in her ears, the gold hoops Gus had bought her once for an anniversary present.
She had forgotten the firmness of his handshake and the way his black hair swung down from his widow’s peak over one eye. Forgotten, too, the maleness of the man and his smell: macho, expensive, almost feral. Ninety-three minutes later, the drink was over, and Beth rose from the table as Oliver politely held back her chair. Her knees had turned to putty and she was suffering a severe attack of love. She had also agreed to spend the weekend with him in Strasbourg.
• • •
So here they were now, two and a half years later, wrapped in each other’s arms and each other’s souls, two halves of one being, ecstatically happy, replete, content just to lie silently among the welter of Beth’s Victorian lace pillows, hips touching, hands entwined, one of Oliver’s legs thrown possessively over one of hers, a gentle breeze fluttering through the Bruges lace curtains and cooling the satisfying film of sweat on both their bodies.
Soon, all too soon, he would stir, glance at his watch, mumble an expletive, leap from the bed and into the shower, calling out his regrets through the power of the water. For the moment, he was serene and hers completely. Sometimes there was the phone call, elegantly done, downstairs in the living room so that she could not overhear, the door partially closed to protect her sensibility. Then the rapid departure, the thrown kiss in the doorway, the promise to call as soon as the meetings in Geneva were concluded, followed by the quickening crunch of tires as the sleek Mercedes streaked away, back to The Boltons, back to his real life. All in all, not too bad an existence, especially when compared with other women’s lives, and rather on a par with her profession of paid cook. Once again, it was not left to her to clean up the mess. And at least he didn’t carry one of those vulgar portable phones.
Of course there was a wife, one he rarely mentioned and then only in the most indirect of terms, but, as Beth often pointed out to Jane, when was there not? Considering the other things Beth had endured in her thirty-something years, married was not too bad at all, certainly livable with. At least it meant Oliver had a healthy appetite for the finer things, which, as far as Beth was concerned, were headed by an enthusiastic sex life.
“Give me a three-times-a-nighter,” she would often say to Jane, “and I’ll show you a contented woman.”
As the downstairs clock chimed eleven and Beth lay in a state of pure tranquilized pleasure, Oliver stirred and ran through the familiar routine, only without the phone call.
“Must go, sweetheart.”
“Mmm.”
“Things to do. Early start.” Already he was off the bed and pulling on his socks. Silk, she noticed, monogrammed. Bought by Her.
“Off so soon?” She stretched luxuriantly, reveling in the cool breeze on her skin, voluptuous and, for once, confident of her own considerable pulling power. She reached out a strong brown arm and drew him close.
“Stay, can’t you?” she murmured. “Just this once? Imogen’s not here. And boy, have I got things I want to do to you.”
He smiled and backed away, knotting his tie (matching, she noticed), and smoothed the perfect hair into place. As he shrugged into the Savile Row jacket, his mind had already left her. He slipped the pigskin wallet into his inside pocket and palmed the keys. And then, unforgivably, he glanced at his watch.
“Don’t get up. I’ll see myself out. I’ll call you.”
And was gone, running lightly down the wooden stairs and closing the front door with a discreet click. Seconds later she heard the powerful engine surge but could not, this time, be bothered to leave the bed to take up her usual standpoint.
“Fuck,” said Beth, switching off the lamp.
Chapter Two
Dorabella had almost finished in the bedroom by the time Vivienne finally emerged, still bleary-eyed, from her morning bath. The heavy silk coverlet was back in place and last night’s clothes had been gathered up and put neatly away. The vast room, with its heavy brocade drapes and Regency furniture, was as immaculate as a hotel suite. And as impersonal, thought Vivienne bitterly as she wandered over to her dressing table. Dorabella ducked into the bathroom, then tactfully withdrew, her arms full of linen for the laundry. Vivienne might have time on her hands but Dorabella’s days were simply never long enough.
Vivienne perched on her ornate stool and leafed listlessly through the gilt-edged pages of her appointments book. Lunch with Betty, a 4:30 fitting with her dressmaker, then six o’clock drinks at the Austrian Embassy, followed, if he was home in time, by dinner à deux at the Connaught with her husband. If he were not, which these days was more than likely, then Dorabella would bring her something light on a tray to consume alone in front of the box.
Not what you might call a life for someone who had started out with such high hopes and so much promise. All around her in the ornate bedroom, on every conceivable surface, were photographs of Vivienne; on her pony looking like Elizabeth Taylor in National Velvet, at Queen Charlotte’s Ball the year she came out, haughty in the Prince of Wales’ feathers, the portrait photograph by Snowdon taken for Tatler when she got engaged
. Vivienne Appleby, Débutante of the Year, on her wedding day, standing triumphantly smiling on the steps of St. Margaret’s, Westminster, while policemen held back the crowds.
She leaned forward wearily and scowled at the perfect image in the glass. Alabaster skin, or so the society columns were fond of saying, night-black hair, violet eyes, this morning underwritten by shadows of a paler hue. A perfect beauty or the wreck of a woman in her prime. It all depended on where you were standing.
Dorabella had left her tray on the footstool but as usual Vivienne had no appetite. She sipped at the freshly squeezed grapefruit juice, served in a crystal glass on a dinky silver coaster, grimacing at its sharpness, then opened one of the drawers of her dressing table and delicately spiked it from a miniature bottle concealed in a beaded evening bag. Well, whatever turns you on, she told her reflection defiantly and this just happened to be the best, the only way Vivienne knew these days of jump-starting herself in the mornings.
Ferdinand landed with a graceful thump on her silk-covered knee and she bent her head slightly to receive his whiskery kiss. From the bed, Isabella watched her with eyes of pure topaz. Like all great beauties, she rarely rose before noon and, were it not for Betty and her damned Thursday lunches, Vivienne would still be in there with her, safely huddled under the silk sheets, out of harm’s way.
On her way to San Lorenzo, Vivienne made a slight detour into Harrods’ Perfumery Hall and steeped herself in twenty minutes or so of pure indulgence, wandering among the makeup counters, sniffing, testing, occasionally buying, so that when she finally emerged, ten minutes late for lunch, she was carrying several glossy packages looped with waxed string over her suede-gloved wrist. She would save the fashion floors for the afternoon. Betty nearly always had some committee or other to rush off to and Vivienne preferred to shop alone so that she could give this most consuming of passions her undivided attention.
The restaurant was buzzing and Betty was waiting at their regular table, clawlike hands hooked together under her chin, a cigarette in an onyx holder gripped between perfect teeth. She waved one finger while continuing to work the room with darting eyes under lizardlike lids, today painted turquoise to match her Hartnell silk suit. If she were honest, Vivienne didn’t much care for Betty but, as they said in New York, she gave good gossip and it was easier to give in to her imperious summonses to lunch than to have to devise yet another weary excuse.
“Hi,” she said, sliding into the proffered chair and letting the waiter shake out her napkin and flick it expertly into place. “The traffic was truly awful.”
Betty eyed the pile of glossy packages but did not bother to comment. She raised one jeweled finger and indicated to the waiter at the bar that they required instanter another round of martinis, straight up—one with a twist, the other with an olive. He nodded and smiled and within seconds the drinks were on the table. Betty and Vivienne were regulars at San Lorenzo. He knew not to keep them waiting.
Conversation was sparse as it usually was unless there was a particular scandal to pick over. The two women toyed with their salads and discussed today’s more pressing concerns, Betty’s facelift, her latest divorce, and whether or not Vivienne should think about having her eyelids done. At ten to three Betty fished her platinum card out of her Gucci bag and signaled for the bill. She had to be in Wimbledon to chair a committee on autistic children. Vivienne, with a lifting heart, was free to head back to Harrods for another glorious wallow before she moved on to Madame Hortense for a final fitting of her Ascot suit.
Sometime after five o’clock, with throbbing feet and a slight martini-induced headache, Vivienne let herself into the silent house and dropped her packages onto the sofa in the hall. It was Dorabella’s afternoon off and the only sound in the vast silence was the distant ticking of the ormolu clock in the first-floor drawing room. She kicked off her tight shoes, wandered into the kitchen for a glass of mineral water, then slowly mounted the stairs, leaving the strewn purchases for her maid to bring up when she returned from visiting her sister in Balham. For Vivienne it was the chase that was the thing. Once the prey had been alighted upon and the purchase made, she often lost interest in the actual goods.
The walk-in closets that lined her spacious bedroom were packed with clothes bought in fits of frustrated idleness but never subsequently worn. One entire wall was devoted to furs alone. Whenever her husband was away for an unusually long time, or after a particularly spirited disagreement, often something to do with an unexplained stain on the collar of one of his hand-sewn shirts, she succeeded in conning another furry little something off him.
“Come the holocaust,” she was fond of saying, “I’ll be the warmest bag lady in the park.”
Every now and then, in order to create fresh hanging space, she had a blitz and then, as she liked to joke to her friends, there were a whole lot of well-dressed Third World immigrants walking the streets of southwest London.
The door to the drawing room stood ajar. Vivienne wandered in and perched on the piano stool, running her fingers over the keys and inhaling the heavy scent of flowers. The pure white linen covers were replaced daily on the chairs and sofas, even though the room was rarely used, and today Dorabella had prepared a stunning arrangement of dark blue delphiniums and white jasmine in an alabaster vase for the table fronting the bay window, dramatically set off by the elaborately swathed damask curtains. Vivienne’s house was a real showplace and featured often in the glossy magazines. But in truth, these days it gave her little pleasure. More and more she felt trapped in all this splendor, stifling to death in a cage of her own devising.
She closed the lid of the Steinway—another useless extravagance since neither she nor her husband played—and trailed slowly up another flight to begin her preparations for the Ambassador’s party.
On the dressing table was a note in Dorabella’s childish hand: “Mister he ring to say he no get back in time from Brussels.” Vivienne smiled and dropped her gloves and bag on the bed. So tell me what else is new? She slid out of her suit jacket and tossed it onto a chair for Dorabella to deal with, then lay down on the immaculate coverlet and closed her weary eyes. On cue, Ferdinand appeared from nowhere and stalked on silent feet across the bed to crouch companionably on her stomach. She scratched his velvet head with her finger and relaxed to the comforting vibration of his purr. Without her cats God knows where she would be. Her world seemed to get smaller daily, and more confining. She felt about as exciting as a bowl of cold porridge and longed for something new, something different, to come along to ruffle the stagnant surface of her life before it was too late. These days her skies seemed to be set in a permanent shade of middle-aged gray.
• • •
Yet it hadn’t always been this way. When Vivienne was a child, growing up in an idyllic country setting, the sun seemed to shine all the time and her memories, stretching back as far as she could remember, were uniformly golden. Eugene Appleby, her father, who was not of British descent but covered it up with a veneer of upper-crust poshness so that only the occasional vowel sound gave him away, doted on his only child and did everything within his powers to bring magic into her life. They lived on a large, sprawling estate in a village outside Cirencester, with dogs and ponies and hens, as well as servants to take care of life’s essentials, something Vivienne grew up accepting simply as a fact of life. If she lacked anything at all in those blissful early years it was her father’s company, for he seemed to be constantly absent. Rumor had it that her mother, Irene Appleby, had once been a beauty, but now it was not easy to see it in her tight-lipped, rarely smiling face. She only ever kissed her daughter in public or last thing at night, as she tucked her in and turned off the light to stop her reading and ruining her eyes.
Eugene, however, more than made up for his absences when he was there, giving his adored child anything she set her heart on. He had the highest possible ambitions for his daughter so that after the exclusive boarding school in Bristol, there was Switzerland (to be finished) a
nd a trip to Kenya to stay with distant relatives before returning to London for the Season. For Vivienne, seventeen and the prettiest girl in London, life was one great adventure with promises of better things to follow.
She had shared a flat in Lennox Gardens, taken a day course at the Cordon Bleu—less in order to know how to cook, herself, than to be able to oversee future servants effectively—played tennis at the Hurlingham, rode to hounds with the Berkshire, and danced the nights away at Annabel’s. There was no time for a job and, in any case, what could she do? Finishing school hadn’t prepared her for anything other than how to act like a lady and conduct herself properly at all times. As long as she was wined and dined and featured in the society columns, it was all right with her father.
Regardless of the fact that she only ever achieved two O levels, and one of those was art, on the social front Vivienne was always a straight-A student. Like the girl in the song, she not only danced with the Prince of Wales but was his guest more than once at Balmoral. She was also admired by a viscount and a Spanish marquis and, for a short while, was close to being engaged to a relative of the Duke of Westminster. Eugene was pleased; his investment had not been wasted. By the time his daughter reached twenty she was the toast of the town and might have had any man she chose. That had always been her problem. The one thing Eugene never gave her was an awareness of life’s limitations. No one ever taught Vivienne Appleby the meaning of the word no.
• • •
It had been June, the night of the Rose Ball, and Vivienne was part of Sukey Portillo’s party at Grosvenor House. She wore a stunning gown of ice-blue satin by a new designer called Zandra Rhodes, a striking change from the slightly frumpy dresses worn by most of the other debs, who were all decked out to look like junior versions of their mothers. With her smooth dark hair and dramatic eyes, Vivienne stood out as she always did, and by two in the morning, when even the band was growing tired and the air was thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of flat champagne, she was more than ready to move on to something a little more adult. When one of the men in their party, an officer in the Grenadier Guards, fresh back from Germany, suggested a foray to the Clermont for a spot of late-night gambling, Vivienne, ever the sport, jumped at it.