“What do you think, my dear?” Clare replied.
Was it true that Clare looked upon her as a daughter? If so that was perhaps the reason why she was always criticizing her and telling her her faults and giving her advice. And yet she could not remember her own mother ever telling her anything that belittled her. Her own mother had always been so sweet and tactful and understanding. (Strangely enough she missed her mother more now than when she had been all alone in the world.) But probably she herself had been over-indulged by both her parents. Clare would be a stricter mother and no doubt her children would be all the better for the extra discipline. If Clare was really fond of her she was being very unselfish in risking Rose’s dislike for the sake of her ultimate good. And if she was not fond of her why did she ask her out so much? If it was for Stephen’s sake, she would be doing all and more than all, that Stephen could possibly require in a friend by seeing Rose half as often as she did. “No,” Rose told herself, “she really must be fond of me. It’s almost as if she can’t let me alone. I daresay she likes managing people and feels that I’m easy material, but all the same she must like me a great deal to see so much of me.”
If for no other reason she was glad of these outings with Clare in order to be able to tell Stephen all about them. Instead of having nothing to say to him when he came back in the evenings she could give him the plot of some foreign film they had seen, or describe the work of some new painter or sculptor—with the second-hand opinions that had been expressed about it. She had the impression that Stephen was really interested in all this, for he would listen with unusual gravity, and she was sure that he was glad she was picking up culture. It gave her so much more to talk about at dinner parties too. She often found now that she knew more about what was going on in London in the art world than most of the people she sat next to. Her own opinions of these exhibitions and highbrow films seldom corresponded with those of Clare and her cronies, but she told Stephen what Clare had thought about them, or what so-and-so had thought, rather than voicing her own views, for she believed that it must be so much more interesting for him, especially as she knew that he admired Clare’s taste so much.
Another subject which she felt could not fail to interest Stephen as a banker was the state of the Botticelli’s finances. She got all the figures from Francie and wrote them down to show Stephen. He was evidently very interested but said that he couldn’t look at them in a hurry and would like to study them if she would leave them with him.
On Clare’s advice she took to reading the papers in the mornings now from cover to cover so that she would be able to discuss the political situation or any interesting law cases with Stephen, and she also studied the financial pages in order to talk to him on his own subject; and occasionally, to her great satisfaction, she found that she knew more than he did about some current happening. But for some reason none of this seemed to bring them closer together. She had lost his favour and knew not where it had gone.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
AND so nearly three months went by, and it was now the end of July. One morning, soon after Stephen had left for the City, the telephone rang. It was Tony. He was having his fortnight’s holiday and was spending a few days of it in London, and wanted to know if he could see her.
“Of course,” she said. “I should love to see you,” and it crossed her mind how very pleasant it would be to see someone with whom she could be completely herself, who would not think her dull or stupid and would anyway love her just as much however stupid she was. “Do come and have lunch with me here.”
“No, I won’t do that. I don’t want to meet your husband.”
Without thinking she replied: “But he doesn’t come home to lunch,” and then realized that that was something she ought never to have said. She should have told him: “If you don’t want to meet my husband I’m afraid you can’t meet me,” but it was too late now. Instead she said: “Then come to Francie’s coffee bar, where I shall be going this afternoon. You remember my cousin, Francie Earle?”
“Yes, I seem to remember her. She was at your mother’s funeral, wasn’t she? We might meet there, but will you come to a movie with me afterwards?”
“No, I’m afraid I can’t. We’re going to a play tonight.”
“What time does it begin?”
“Not till half past seven, but Stephen gets back here at about half past six and we have a drink first.”
“Well, that gives us plenty of time if you don’t have to be back till half past six.”
“I have to change first.”
“Well, will you spend the afternoon with me, anyway?” She hesitated.
“I won’t make things difficult, I promise you,” he said quickly. “I won’t reproach you or try to make love to you or anything, truly. I just want to see you and feel we’re still friends. Do you mind?”
“No, of course not, and I’d love to see you, but I do think you ought to meet Stephen.”
“Just spare me that, will you? I don’t want to meet your husband or see your home
...
Where is this coffee bar and how soon can you be there?”
Rose gave him the address. “I’ll meet you there at half past two,” she said. As she put down the receiver she wondered whether she had done wrong to make this rendezvous with Tony. “I’ll tell Stephen about it this evening,” she said to herself, “and tell him at the same time how I had lunch with Tony while we were engaged. I don’t want to have any secrets from him even in the past. I ought to have told him before
...
I shall tell him what Tony feels about not meeting him and I’m sure he’ll understand. He is so wonderfully understanding. But, anyway, he will advise me what to do about it in future.” She would have liked to telephone to Stephen at the bank to tell him straight away, but she knew how much he disliked being rung up in working hours unless it was for something really important.
II
It was a glorious hot day and the City seemed stifling, and after an early lunch at the City Club Stephen had a sudden impulse to chuck work for that afternoon and drive Rose out into the country. They might dine at some little place by the river. And then he remembered that they had tickets for a play that evening. Damn the play; it was too hot for a theatre, anyway, and they could see it another time. It was Wednesday and they were anyhow dining out after the play so there would be no need to cancel any dinner arrangements. (What a bore it was this having to dine out every Wednesday. It was one of the many dreary aspects of his bachelor life which he had hoped to change by marriage but which had remained disappointingly the same.)
Fortunately he had nothing vitally urgent to do that afternoon, so when he got back to the bank he said to his secretary, Miss Davies: “I’m going to play truant this afternoon. If anyone wants me say I am in conference and mustn’t be disturbed. Can you use two tickets for the theatre to-night?”
Miss Davies could use them very well because she had a sister from Cornwall staying with her.
Stephen never took the car to the City; he always went by Tube, so on the way home he got the car out of the garage where he kept it, a few blocks from the house. It was still not half past two, but to his disappointment he found that Rose had already gone out.
“I expect she’s at that coffee bar,” he said to himself. “I’ll go round and rout her out,” and after changing quickly into a grey suit he drove off in the direction of Chelsea.
He parked the car outside the Botticelli, as he didn’t intend to stay there for more than a few moments, and pushed open the door of the little shop. It was dim in there and soft music was playing and there was a strong smell of coffee. “What a place to spend a glorious afternoon like this,” flashed through his mind.
The bar was empty of customers except for four people sitting together at one table at the back who were making a great deal of noise, chattering and laughing. It took Stephen a moment or two to recognize them in that dim light after the brilliance of the sunshine outside, and then he saw that Rose and Francie were sitting on the banquette facing him with two young men sitting opposite to them, one of whom he recognized from the back of his head as Derek.
He must have appeared to them merely as a black silhouette outlined against the door so that before they recognized him he had time to watch them unobserved. Rose was laughing. Her head was thrown back and her laugh came spontaneous and gay. He felt a catch at his heart. The next moment she had seen him and the laugh stopped in her throat and her happy expression changed to one of acute embarrassment.
Francie saw
him
almost at the same instant. “Why, there’s Stephen!” she exclaimed. The two men turned their heads and then they all got to their feet.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” Stephen said. He did indeed feel like an intruder.
“Not at all. You’ve caught us relaxing!” Francie said. “You haven’t been here since the opening
...
Come and sit down and have some coffee
...
You know Shane, don’t you?”
Stephen vaguely remembered having met this young man before. Wasn’t he the one who helped Derek with the bar?
“Yes, do have some coffee,” Rose joined in. “And see how really good it is.” It struck Stephen that she was nervous. What on earth had she to be nervous about?
“Sit down,” Francie said again, and Stephen sat down next to Rose, who had resumed her seat. Her eyes were on the door. Stephen wondered why she didn’t ask him why he had come. Shane went over to the bar to get him a coffee. “Black or white?” he called out.
“Black, please,” Stephen replied. Conscious of Rose’s distracted attention he too was watching the door.
“A friend of mine is coming here—to meet me,” she began suddenly, nervously licking her lips. “You remember—Tony—an old friend of mine. I told you about him
...
Ah, there he is now . .
A young man had opened the door and was standing on the threshold for a moment, as Stephen had done, getting used to the dimness. Then he saw Rose and hastened across to her, and Stephen was able to read in his eyes everything he was feeling.
“Francie,” Rose said. “This is Tony. You remember each other, don’t you? And this is Derek. I don’t think you’ve met. And this—this is Stephen.”
At that hated name Tony’s brows contracted. Was this a plot to get him to meet her husband?
Stephen took charge of the situation. He got up and said: “I really don’t think I can wait to drink my coffee after all. Will you excuse me, Francie? May I have a rain check on it?
...
I only just called in, Rose, to tell you that I’m awfully sorry I can’t take you out this evening. I’ve got to go down to the country. I’m on my way now, that’s why I’m dressed like this. A sudden matter cropped up to do with a trusteeship. It’s urgent, I’m afraid. But perhaps you”—and he looked at Tony—“could take Rose to the theatre? We’ve got tickets for—I can’t remember the name now
...”
“That doesn’t matter, because I haven’t seen anything,” Tony put in eagerly. “I’d love to take her.”
“Good. And I’ve got a table booked for supper afterwards at the Savoy Grill—and an account there, so will you please put it down to me? You’ll see he does that, won’t you, Rose? And I’ve left the tickets for you at the house
...
Well, I must be off. Good-bye, everybody.”
“Have you got far to go?” Rose asked, desperately th
inking
of some means of keeping him there.
“Yes, it’s quite a way.”
“I’ll come and see you off,” she said miserably.
“Don’t bother. You stay and drink my coffee for me.”
But all the same she followed him out of the shop to the car. “Please let me explain,” she said as he got in.
“There’s nothing to explain, is there?”
“He only rang me up this morning. I would have telephoned to you and told you, but I know how you hate my bothering you with things if they’re not important
...”
“Forget it,” he said.
“Will you be home late?” she asked.
“I don’t expect so. But don’t wait up for me. Goodbye,” and he drove off.
He drove to the nearest post office and went in and rang up Miss Davies. “I’m afraid I can’t let you have those tickets after all,” he said. “I’m so sorry. Do you mind sending them round to the house by messenger addressed to my wife? Tell him just to slip them through the letterbox, because there’s no one there. And will you please ring up my agency and get two others for yourself
—
either for that show or any other show you like. Can I trust you to do that? Will you promise me?
...
Good. If I find you’ve broken your word I’ll throw you out on your ear to-morrow!
...
Good-bye, Miss Davies. See you in the morning.”
He got
back into the car and drove off in the direction of the Great West Road. He was thinking of Rose, but not of her rendezvous with the young man, her girlhood sweetheart. He was thinking of that lovely laughing face which had frozen at the sight of him into the mask he had got to know all too well these last couple of months.