Everything to Gain and a Secret Affair

  “She’s very old now, isn’t she?”

  “Ninety-one.”

  “Oh, my goodness, that is old.”

  “I wouldn’t mind living to that age,” I said, “as long as I had all my marbles.”

  Diana laughed, and so did I.

  I said, “David Nelson’s a nice man, by the way. I’ve gotten to know him a bit better over the past few months, and he’s very genuine. He really does care for Mom.”

  “I’m glad Jessica finally got married. She’s been so lonely for so very long. Marrying David is the wisest thing she could’ve done.”

  I looked across the table at Diana, studying her for a second. And then before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “And you must be very lonely too, Diana. After all, you’re alone.”

  “I think most women, no, let me correct myself, most people who are on their own get extremely lonely at different times in their daily lives,” she said, smiling faintly.

  There was a slight pause, and I saw a look of sadness creep into her eyes before she said slowly, “In a way, loneliness is another kind of death . . .” She did not finish her sentence, merely sat gazing at me.

  I was lost for words myself, feeling her wistfulness, her sense of loss and regret more profoundly than I ever had before. She touched me deeply.

  A silence fell between us. We sipped our wine, looked out the window, and quietly ignored each other for a moment or two, lost in our own thoughts.

  Quite unexpectedly, I had a terrible urge to ask her about my father, to tell her what Andrew and I had concocted about the two of them this past summer. Yes, I will ask her, I made up my mind. But when I turned my face to focus on her, I lost my nerve. I didn’t dare say a word to her. Not because she intimidated me, which she didn’t, but because she was essentially such a private person. I could not intrude on her privacy, nor could I probe into her personal life.

  She caught my eye and flashed me the most brilliant of smiles. She said cheerfully, “But my loneliness doesn’t last very long, Mal, only an hour or two, and it only hits me every now and then. Let’s face it, I’m very fortunate to have the business. It keeps me fully occupied night and day—traveling abroad, going to auctions and sales on the Continent, taking clients and would-be clients to lunch and dinner, seeing and entertaining foreign dealers, not to mention running the shop. I never seem to have a moment to spare these days. I’m always flying off to France or Italy or Spain. Or somewhere or other.”

  “And haven’t you ever met someone delicious on your travels?” I asked. “A suave, sophisticated Frenchman? Or a lyrical, romantic Italian? Or perhaps a dashing, passionate Spaniard?” I couldn’t resist teasing her.

  Giggling like a schoolgirl, her eyes as merry as I’ve ever seen them, she shook her head. “’Fraid not, Mal,” she said, then lifted her glass to her mouth and took a sip of the wine, a very good Montrachet. She knew her French wines.

  At this moment the waiter appeared with our first course.

  Diana had ordered leek-and-potato soup, “to fight the chill in the air,” she had said to me a short while before as we studied the menus.

  I had selected oysters, and a dozen of the Savoy’s best Colchesters were staring up at me temptingly. They looked delectable. My mouth watered. I said to Diana, “Whenever I’m here in London, I manage to make a pig of myself with all of the wonderful fish, I love it so much. And I’m afraid I’m about to become Miss Piggy again.”

  “It’s the best fish in the world, at least I think so; and don’t forget, it’s not fattening.”

  “As if you had to worry,” I murmured. I had always admired Diana’s sleek figure. Not that I was fat, but she was very slender and shapely for her age.

  Pushing my small, sharp fork onto the shell and underneath a plump, succulent oyster, I lifted it up and plopped it into my mouth. Instantly, I could taste the salt of the sea and seaweed and the sea itself in that little morsel, all of those tastes rolling around in my mouth at the same time. It was refreshing and delicious. As the oyster slid down my throat, I reached for another without pause, and then another, unable to resist. I was going to have to restrain myself, or I would bolt them all down in the space of a few minutes.

  Out of the blue, Diana said, “I wonder if your father will get married, now that he’s free to do so?”

  My eyes came up from my plate of oysters, and I gaped at her. Putting my fork down, I sat back in the chair, my eyes leveled at her. I felt a tight little frown knotting the bridge of my nose.

  Finding my voice eventually, I said slowly, “He’d have to have . . . someone . . . someone in his life . . . someone to marry, wouldn’t he?” I discovered I could not continue. I leaned against my chair, too nervous to say another word. I wanted Diana to tell me, to break the news about her and Daddy. I felt awkward, tongue-tied, and therefore I couldn’t probe.

  “Oh, but he does have somebody,” she said, and that brilliant smile of hers played on her pretty mouth again.

  “He does?”

  “Why, of course. Whatever makes you think that a man like your father could be alone? He’s far too dependent a creature for that.” She stopped short, staring hard at me. She must have noticed the expression on my face.

  I sat there still somewhat dumbfounded, staring back at her stupidly. I had been rendered mute.

  Diana frowned. “I thought you knew . . . I thought your mother had told you years ago . . .” Once again, her voice trailed off.

  “Told me what?” I asked in a tight voice.

  “Oh, dear,” Diana muttered, almost to herself. “What have I done now? Gone and put my foot in it, I suspect.”

  “No, you haven’t, Diana, truly you haven’t!” I protested, eager to hear more. “What did you mean? What did you think my mother had told me?”

  She took a deep breath. “That there have been other women in his life. I mean after your mother and he agreed to separate, all those years ago when you were eighteen, when you went off to Radcliffe. Jess once told me about his—affairs, relationships, whatever you wish to call them. I simply assumed that she had confided in you when you grew older. Especially after your marriage.”

  “No, she didn’t. I must admit, though, that I’ve thought about his life, lately, anyway. Thought about him . . . having other women, I mean.”

  Diana nodded.

  “And there’s someone now, isn’t there? Someone special in my father’s life.”

  Again she nodded, as though she did not trust herself to speak, the way I had felt a few minutes before. I could certainly understand why.

  Taking a deep breath, I said in a rush, “It’s you, isn’t it, Diana? Just as Andrew and I have suspected for months now.”

  My mother-in-law looked as if she’d been struck in the face, stared at me in absolute amazement, and then she burst out laughing. She continued to laugh so much tears came into her eyes. Only by exercising enormous control did she manage to finally stop. Reaching for her bag, she took out a lacy handkerchief and dabbed her eyes.

  “Oh, do excuse me, Mal darling,” she said after a moment, still gasping slightly. “I’m sorry to behave this way, but that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time. Your father and I? Good Lord, no. I’m much too practical and down-to-earth, far too sane for Edward. He needs someone a lot more helpless and sweeter than I. He needs a woman who is romantic, idealistic, and fey. Yes, fey is a very good word with which to describe Gwenny.”

  “Gwenny! Who’s Gwenny?”

  “Gwendolyn Reece-Jones. She’s a great friend of mine, a theatrical designer, and when she’s not up here in London designing sets and scenery and all that sort of thing for plays and shows in the West End, she lives in a sixteenth-century manor house in the Welsh Marshes. She’s imaginative and charming and funny and dear, and yes, very, very fey.”

  “And she’s Daddy’s girlfriend?”

  “Correct. She’s been good for him, too.” Diana cleared her throat and after a pause added, “And I’m afraid I introduced them
, for my sins.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “Gwenny is serious, I know that for a fact. She’s positively dotty over him. Very much in love.” Diana sat back, her head held on one side; a thoughtful look spread itself across her face. “I think Edward’s serious about her, but I couldn’t say definitely. That’s why I wondered aloud if he would marry. Perhaps. Hard to say, really.”

  “Has he known her long?”

  “Oh, about four years, thereabouts.”

  “I see.”

  After a moment, Diana asked, “Tell me something. What on earth made you and Andrew think I was involved with your father? That’s a most preposterous idea, and in many ways, I might add.”

  I told her then about Andrew finding the letter in the summer. I explained how the two of us had speculated about them, had analyzed the way they behaved when they were together, concluded how different they were when in each other’s company. And in consequence of all this had assumed they were having an affair.

  Diana had the good grace to chuckle. “If you think I act differently when I’m around Edward, you’re perfectly correct. I do. I suppose I’m more of a woman, my own woman, less of a mother, less of a grandmother. I’m more myself in certain ways. What I mean by this is that I’m like I am when I’m alone, when I’m not with you and Andrew and the twins. I behave in a very natural way with him. You see, there’s something in your father’s personality that makes every woman feel . . . good, and—”

  “Except for Mom,” I cut in.

  “Touché, darling,” she said. “And as I was saying, he has that knack, that ability, to make a woman feel her best—attractive, feminine, and desirable. Edward can make a woman believe she’s special, wanted, when he’s around her, even if he’s not particularly interested in her for himself. And he’s very flirtatious, says flattering things. It’s hard to explain, really. I will say this: Your father’s very much a woman’s man, not a man’s man at all. He adores women, admires them, respects them, and I guess that is part of it.” She leaned across the table and finished, “It’s all about attitude, Mal. His attitude.”

  “Will he marry . . . Gwenny? What’s your opinion, Diana?”

  “I told you, I don’t know.” She pursed her lips, looking thoughtful again, but only for a fraction of a second. “If he’s smart, he will. She’s made him happy, that I do know.”

  “I wonder if he’ll bring her out in the open, now that Mom’s divorced him and married someone else?”

  Diana threw me an odd look. “He’s not made much of a secret about Gwenny in the past. In fact, no secret at all. At least, not here in London. He probably didn’t mention Gwenny to you because he didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’m sure that’s the case,” Diana said in her firmest tone.

  It occurred to me that she was suddenly out to defend my father. He didn’t need any defense, as far as I was concerned. I had always loved him, and I still did. After all, his marital battles with my mother were old hat. I had grown up with them. Besides which, I was the one who had always thought they should have divorced years ago. I had never understood their behavior.

  Clearing my throat, I asked, “Did he ever bring Gwenny to the States? To New York?”

  “Not to New York, as far as I know. However, I believe she was with him when he gave those archaeological lectures at U.C.L.A. last year.”

  “How old is she?”

  “About fifty-three or fifty-four, not much more than that.”

  “Has she ever been married? Tell me something about her, Diana.”

  Diana nodded. “Of course. It’s not at all unnatural for you to be curious. But there’s not much to tell. She was married. To Laurence Wilton, the actor. As you probably know, he died about twelve years ago. No children. She’s a rather nice woman, and she’s very interested in archaeology, anthropology, art, and architecture. She shares many common bonds with your father. I think you’d approve of Gwenny.”

  “I wish he’d trusted me enough to tell me about her,” I muttered, dropping my eyes. I ate the rest of my oysters in silence.

  Diana dipped her spoon into the soup and took a few mouthfuls. “I’m afraid I’ve let this grow cold,” she murmured.

  “Let’s get you some more,” I suggested, and swiveling in my chair, I endeavored to catch the waiter’s eye.

  “No, no,” Diana demurred. “This is fine, really. It hasn’t lost its taste. It’s like . . . vichyssoise now, and it’s still very good.”

  I nodded and took a long swallow of the white wine.

  My mother-in-law’s eyes rested on me, and she studied me for a while. Eventually, she said in a low, concerned voice, “You know, your father has always been a very discreet man, from all that I’ve heard, and from everything I know about him personally. He’s never flaunted his . . . lady friends. And you must always remember that old habits die hard. With everyone. Edward is a gentleman, and so he’s discreet. He doesn’t know any other way to be. I am quite certain that he thought he was doing the right thing in not telling you about Gwenny. Or introducing you to her. And there’s something else. I’m sure he didn’t want to upset you.”

  “I guess so,” I agreed, but I was a bit miffed with my father all of a sudden.

  I turned my head and looked out the window, staring at the hazy gray sky but not really seeing it. I was disappointed he had not understood that I could handle it, had not understood that I would have understood everything, understood about Gwendolyn Reece-Jones and his need at this time in his life to have a bit of happiness. I was thirty-three years old, married and a mother, for God’s sake. I was a mature, adult young woman, not a little girl anymore.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The suite at Claridge’s was not all that large, but it was very comfortable, and the sitting room was one of the most charming I’ve ever seen, redolent of the Victorian period.

  What made it so unusual and special was the fireplace that really worked and the baby grand that stood regally in a corner near the tall, soaring windows. These were dressed with plum-colored velvet draperies, handsomely swagged and tasseled, and they punctuated the soft, dove-gray brocade walls, while an oriental carpet spread rich, jewel-toned colors underfoot.

  A big, squashy sofa covered in plum silk and matching armchairs, along with an antique coffee table, were arranged in front of the white marble fireplace; here, an eye-catching chinoiserie mirror hung over the mantel and made a glittering backdrop for a gilt-and-marble French chiming clock with cupids reclining on each side of its face.

  Adding to the turn-of-the-century mood created by the elegant background were such things as a Victorian desk, a china cabinet filled with antique porcelain plates, and various small occasional tables made of mahogany. In fact, so authentic was the decorative scheme I felt as if I had been whisked back into another era.

  Vases of flowers, a bowl of fruit, a tray of drinks, newspapers and magazines all helped to make the room seem even more homey and inviting. It was especially cozy this November night, with the fire burning merrily in the grate and the pink silk-shaded lamps turned on.

  A television set stood in a corner on one side of the fireplace; I turned it on and sat down on the sofa to watch the evening news. But it was the tail end of it, with sports coming up, and within a few minutes I became bored and restless.

  Turning it off, I wandered through into the bedroom, asking myself when Andrew would manage to get away from the office. We had spoken earlier, in the late afternoon just after I had returned from a visit to the Tate, and he had told me that he had booked a table at Harry’s Bar for dinner. But he had not indicated what time the reservation was for, nor had he said when he would return to the hotel.

  To while away a little time, I read several chapters of my Colette, and then, realizing it was almost eight, I undressed, put on a robe, and went into the bathroom. After cleaning off my makeup, I redio my face and brushed my hair. I had just finished coiling it up into a Fren
ch twist on the back of my head when I heard a key in the door. I rushed into the sitting room, a happy and expectant look on my face.

  Andrew was hanging up his trenchcoat in the small vestibule of the suite. Turning around, he saw me. “Hi,” he said. He lifted his briefcase off the floor and took a step forward.

  I found myself staring at him intently. I saw at once that he was totally exhausted. I was appalled. The dark smudges under his eyes seemed more pronounced than ever tonight, and his face was drawn, much paler than usual.

  Hurrying to him, I hugged him tightly, then taking hold of his arm, I led him into the room. But he paused by the fireplace, stepped away from me, and put the briefcase on a nearby chair. After leaning toward the fire and warming his hands, he straightened and propped himself against the mantelpiece.

  Looking at him closely, I asked, “Don’t you feel well?”

  “Tired. Bone bloody tired.”

  “We don’t have to go out to dinner,” I volunteered. “We could have room service.”

  He gave me a peculiar, rather cold look. “I don’t care whether we go out to dinner or not. What I do care about, though, is dragging myself up to Yorkshire. What I should say is that I’m certainly not going to trail up there to my mother’s.” He said this in a snappish tone that was most unlike him. “I’ve just had her on the phone, railing on about my working too hard, and insisting we go up there tomorrow. So that I can have a rest, she said. Is that what the two of you were concocting at lunch today?”

  “We hardly spoke about it!” I exclaimed a bit heatedly. “In fact, Diana only mentioned it to me in passing.”