Affairs of the Heart Read online

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  “I seem to be taking over Geoffrey’s role these days,” he told her. “I’m sure he forgets that as a director he should be seen more often than he is.” It was July 1931 and as usual Geoffrey was somewhere in Italy. “It’s got so that few ever ask after him, and then only to wonder idly at his not being around.”

  Rather than condemning Geoffrey for being so remiss, he relished the man’s absence, being given a new status with customers turning their attention to him instead. And why not, Mary thought with admiration. Will was a perfect substitute, sociable, charming, a somewhat loose-limbed grace about him that made him appear entirely at ease with himself, they enjoying his dry humour that probably matched their own. They might still look to Henry to unburden their small problems, and Mary well knew the comfort he could dole out, but sharing a good joke was reserved for William Goodridge now, where once it had been reserved for Geoffrey.

  It seemed Will was making friends with all sorts, from the Hollywood stars in London en route for Paris – who found Letts an informal but respectable venue in which to cavort until dawn before returning back to their hotels, the Savoy or the Ritz, to sleep it off – to Members of Parliament frequenting the place to unwind, and rogues with money to go places. Stage people often called him “darling”, politicians addressed him as “Goodridge” or “my dear chap” or plain “William”, and rogues – of whom Letts saw its share, well-dressed and respectable on the surface – endearingly referred to him as Billy. He saw them all in the one light so long as they behaved while on the premises.

  He would speak of them often by their first name – name-dropping as Mary saw it, though she was proud of his new social standing with them all – Noel (Coward), Miss Valois (of ballet company fame), Frederick (Ashton), also of ballet fame, Constance (Lambert) and so on. But even Henry, who knew everyone, never name-dropped. It was at times embarrassing, Mary considered.

  Some he had come to know better than others. Sir Oswald Mosley, invariably with a different woman on his arm for all he was married, was a noisy diner holding sway over those with him, usually on some favourite political topic. The orator had taken to William owing to those occasions when he’d cornered him and Will, instead of giving an excuse to be somewhere else, had appeared to take the time to listen to what he had to say. Henry, polite though he was, had his own, strong, views on politics and there Sir Oswald knew he had met his match. William was far more pliable.

  “You must come to one of my meetings, old boy. I won’t ask as to your politics but I will open your eyes to what’s going on in this country.”

  William’s political views this last year or so had, as with so many in despair of the present government with depression hammering at their door, been thrown into some confusion. By his very upbringing he had naturally always leaned towards the party striving for the ordinary man. Now, despite his exalted position as restaurant manager of a high-class establishment crying Tory to him and the present Labour government proving incapable in getting men back to work – his own father, a man of integrity, had been given the push last year – it was still against his nature to see the Tories as his choice. Mosley and what he called his New Party, having lost patience with Labour for rejecting his radical ideas for economic regeneration, were like salvation to William’s present confusion.

  “Labour was a mess,” William told Mary in September. Labour having resigned, the general election loomed. He’d mentioned the expelling of Mosley by Labour, who had then banned all his supporters. Even before the election an already formed coalition National Government looked to win it with flying colours, everyone sick of party muddle. Will had his own thoughts.

  “That won’t alter things,” he went on as, leaving Helen to her own devices, Mary set out his tea. “Taking us off the gold standard and devaluing the pound, putting the Bank of England in a panic.” He failed to mention that several other countries had also come off the gold standard. “What we need is a complete change. Look how Sir Oswald dealt with Labour after what they did to him. Split the Labour vote at the Ashton-under-Lyne by-election in April with his New Party so the Tory got in there. It proves his New Party is what we need. He knows where he’s going. He’s just the man to lead us out of this mess.”

  “He’s the man to lead you up the garden path,” Mary countered as she gazed at Helen dawdling over her supper. Two years old in April, the child was not a hearty eater by any means, causing her mother many a fraught hour coaxing her into getting a few spoonfuls down. Now Will had come home, early for once, only to plague her with politics.

  In her estimation she wasn’t politically minded and felt disloyal to the single-minded women who’d fought to win the right to vote. At this coming election, she, now with a vote, wasn’t even certain how to properly exercise it, more shame on her. She’d vote, but for whom? One thing was certain – it wouldn’t be Mosley’s party. For herself, she didn’t trust him.

  Or maybe it was that she was sick and tired of hearing about him through Will. She heard about him everywhere else, too. Everyone had heard of him: bom into wealth, married into more wealth, a notorious womaniser, a Tory MP, then a Labour MP, only to walk out on them all to form his New Party. The trouble was that people struggling to make ends meet might be willing to follow him as their golden hope to security, William among them.

  “Leave it alone,” she advised, taking Helen by the hand to wash her ready for bed, having given up on the half-eaten supper. “I don’t trust the man. He seems too much of an upstart turncoat to me.”

  But Will only snorted. “You ought to take more interest in politics. It can be so absorbing. You could come with me, you know. Then you’d see.”

  “And what about Helen?”

  “Get someone in to look after her. You need a break, love.”

  But she never went. Had it been a theatre or the cinema she’d have gone willingly, but that was seldom offered – the last time they’d had an evening out together had been to see Gertrude Lawrence and Noel Coward in Private Lives at the Phoenix Theatre, a year ago – and she wasn’t going to ask now.

  Nine

  In the weeks coming up to the general election William went to four of Mosley’s meetings – another cause to keep him out late. After the first meeting Mary found herself telling him angrily to remember that he had a home. She could forgive him late working hours, but this going off to enjoy himself without a thought for her alone in the flat, Helen asleep, and nothing to do – it was like the days after Geoffrey had left her.

  Whether Will made any mention of her anger to Henry or not, to her deep gratitude he called in on her the next three times, saying he guessed that she might need a bit of company. A bit of company! She could have thrown her arms about his neck. But that would have set something off, and complication was something she did not want.

  That first time she was indeed edgy, visualising the rekindling of their old affair, but Henry conducted himself as properly as any old friend might. She looked forward to each visit, the sight of him at the door brightening up her dull day. He would take a moment or two to peek at his sleeping daughter, Mary standing quietly behind him, aware of the oddness in knowing that he was Helen’s father. Those days were so like a dream, she often forgot for long periods about his relationship to her daughter.

  After closing the door softly on the sleeping child, he would come and sit in one of her big leather armchairs with a glass of brandy she’d begun to have ready for him.

  “Do you mind if I smoke?” he had asked that first time. She’d shaken her head eagerly, remembering the days when the tang of Virginia tobacco smoke would linger well after he’d left, a fragrant reminder of the joy of their love-making.

  After that he’d light up as a matter of course. They’d sit opposite each other, chatting, she about Helen, about her loneliness and feelings of isolation, he about the restaurant, sometimes of his uneventful married life with Grace. After her one trip abroad with him she’d lost all interest in holidays, con
tent only to be with their son. She showed no interest in himself; he’d not had relations with her for so long that it had become a habit.

  Mary’s heart would go out to him, not entirely selflessly, longing to give him the comfort he so craved but conscious also of the need she herself had for him still. It was as well to smother it, knowing that at the first semblance of encouragement he’d be in her arms. Then she’d have to face Will later, certain that he would detect by her face what had gone on. Of course he knew of Henry’s visits. She was entirely honest about that and he didn’t seem put out, rather he saw them as an open cheque to follow his own pursuits.

  “It is about time he took you somewhere a little more exciting than that,” Henry remarked after she had told him about Will’s offer to take her with him to his political meetings.

  “He’s never here long enough to take me anywhere,” she answered, sipping the sherry she had poured for herself. “Helen’s no barrier, we can get a nanny in for her. It’s just that he never even mentions us going out.”

  “You’ve not asked him to give you more of his time?” The way he said it made her suspect that he already knew she hadn’t. “When he’s always so very busy?” she said sharply, and because it sounded as if she were censuring him in allowing his restaurant manager to work such long hours, even though it was William’s choice, she added hurriedly, “He loves his job so much. I’d even say that the place is in his blood.”

  “It certainly is,” Henry replied with a grin, but sobered immediately. “Even so, he should consider you more than he does, at least take you out occasionally. Unless, of course…”

  He paused at that, in a guarded manner, and in a more cautious tone added, “Someone ought to be taking you out, getting you out of yourself, or you’ll be having another nervous breakdown.” She couldn’t recall having any such breakdown but supposed her depression following her divorce might have made it appear so – or perhaps he was referring to her behaviour following Marianne’s death. But Henry was going on, again with exaggerated caution. “I wonder if William would mind were I to take you out one evening. Just to give you a little relief from this flat.”

  Mary’s heart gave a leap of excitement. “I could ask him.” She prayed that her joy did not show too much in her eyes. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

  William didn’t mind, or at least appeared too preoccupied with all he was hearing at his political meetings. He seemed almost relieved to have the responsibility of her taken off his shoulders. “Fine, if you want to go.”

  His ready agreement left her wondering if he loved her at all. When they’d first married he had spoken of his enduring love through all the years he’d not seen her, but lately it seemed to have died. It was her fault for turning from his affections from the beginning, her heart with Henry, until she had finally killed Will’s love. She cared for him but it was Henry she still loved. Geoffrey of course was a distant shadow; hard to believe they had ever been married.

  Henry took her to Drury Lane to the opening night of Noel Coward’s Cavalcade, a truly lovely story of English life from 1900, with himself and Mary Clare starring. Afterwards Henry took Mary backstage to add his congratulations to all the others on a fine success: he and Mr Coward were on close speaking terms through the actor often patronising Letts for supper after a performance. Mary had met Mr Coward before when she and Geoffrey had been together, but he didn’t appear to recognise her though he greeted her affably when introduced by Henry as a sister-in-law. Taking Henry’s hand he promptly led him through the crush of the hot and swarming dressing-room, with Mary following, to where a girl was pouring champagne, bidding Henry to have as much as he wanted for it had been, “A fine first night, old boy, don’t you think?”

  For the occasion, Mary had poured herself into a pale green cinema satin sheath evening dress she’d bought at Harrods. At the time she’d wondered where on earth she would ever wear it; now, mingling with social wealth, it was like old times. She didn’t want it to stop.

  She certainly was in no hurry to leave. Will wouldn’t be home until the small hours, more likely going off to a club for a drink with the political friends he was beginning to make. He’d come home to tell her all about them and the meeting, boring her to death with his euphoria about all the good things Sir Oswald Mosley was promising to do for the country as he gained power. Mosley was certain of his New Party winning seats enough to convince the next government of his radical but right views, and confident that he would finally make this a country fit for heroes.

  Henry’s lack of hurry about leaving matched hers. Grace wasn’t even at home, spending a week or two entertaining local friends, of whom she had many, at Swift House. Her parents, just the other side of the village, could enjoy seeing their daughter and their grandson. She’d written a couple of times to Henry about it. Other than that, he was a free agent. They had all the time in the world.

  The gathering dispersed just before midnight, and she and Henry finally got themselves a taxi for the short journey back. The night was a stormy one with a high, rain-laden wind, but in the taxi it was cosy. With the champagne affecting her, Mary sleepily laid her cheek on Henry’s shoulder, feeling his hand gently holding hers. It was lovely being so close to him, the warmth of his hand on hers, the texture of his suit smooth against her cheek, his breath touching her forehead now and again. Almost like being in bed with him.

  In the flat, the young woman hired to sit with Helen put on her coat, handed Mary her bill to be paid to the agency later, and departed with a smiling remark: “Your little girl has been a darling, Mrs Goodridge. No trouble at all. I hope you and your husband have had a lovely evening.”

  “Oh, we have,” Mary replied, compressing her lips to suppress a giggle. Closing the door, her suppressed laughter escaped its barrier in a burst of merriment. “Thank you for a lovely evening, Mr Goodridge. Would you care for a brandy, Mr Goodridge?”

  Henry laughed too and, while she poured his brandy, sat himself in the deep leather armchair which he appeared to have made his own. He shifted slightly to one side of it as she handed him his glass, and patted the space he had made, enough for her slim figure to fit into. “Come and sit here. You need to calm down after rushing from the taxi in that wind.”

  She had indeed arrived at her flat on the second floor out of breath, for all it had been just a few yards to the door with the wind buffeting her.

  “Almost as bad as August.” She gave another giggle as she stripped off her coat and hat, dropping them in a heap on the carpet. “My, that was a terrible gale we had, with floods and everything.” A small hiccup stopped the flow, and she came towards him, still on the verge of giggling. It all seemed very funny, rushing like that from the taxi, nearly losing her hat, racing up the stairs, trying to get her key in the lock, making it after the third attempt, the young woman, Miss Something-or-Other, handing her that time sheet and saying…

  “Mr Goodridge,” she spluttered and threw herself into the narrow space Henry had made for her on the armchair, even so enough for her slim frame to squeeze into. “Mr Goodrid…” The rest of it became smothered by Henry’s lips on hers.

  Suddenly sobered, she put her arms about his neck and drew those lips down even tighter upon hers. For some time they clung together, she feeling the heat rising up in her, the desire for him making her head reel, her whole body cry out for him. It was the champagne. No, it was more than that – it was an ache for love. For so long she had been without love quite voluntarily: her own fault, for only Henry could give her what she truly craved.

  Breaking away from her, he put down the brandy glass and, getting up, took her in his arms, carrying her towards the bedroom. She did not protest but let him lay her on the bed and undress her while every fibre of her tightened with an ever-mounting need as he took off her clothes, then his, all the while seeming not to have let go his hold on her. The time to the union of their two bodies seemed to consume them until finally they lay side by side, not moving, each with th
eir own thoughts. Mary felt his arm come around her, heard his voice whisper, “Are you all right?”

  She nodded and for a while they lay quietly, then he said, “I must go.” Again she nodded. If Will found them like this…

  Dressing was automatic, silently done, almost an embarrassment. She followed him into the lounge, distantly heard Helen briefly call out in her sleep as she turned over. The sound brought words to her mouth.

  “Will you visit here again?” Somehow it seemed that he wouldn’t, for he didn’t answer immediately.

  When he did, his tone was flat. “Do you want me to?” Oh, yes! For a moment she thought she had said that out loud. “Do you want to?” she asked instead, inanely, then impulsively, “I’d like you to.” Then emotion got the better of her. “Oh, darling! I couldn’t bear for you not to.”

  She was in his arms and they kissed with the desperation of those destined never to meet again. “I will,” he whispered. “When William…” He sounded out of breath, it coming in a gush. “When he’s out again.”

  “Yes,” she replied and knew they were forming a conspiracy.

  * * *

  “There something not quite right there,” Mary said.

  William had told her how Letts did not seem to be making the profits its busy times warranted. Henry’s accountant had said the books appeared in order and he could find nothing to account for the low turnover.

  “I don’t believe him,” Mary said. “Beevish is an old dodderer. He was Henry’s father’s accountant long before the brothers took over. He must be nearly eighty.”

  “Seventy-five,” William corrected as he put on his bow tie in readiness to leave for his evening on duty, which would probably take him well into the small hours, it being Saturday night.