On the Edge [= Dead Gorgeous]

18

Hector opened the kitchen door and looked in. His eyes lit up when he saw her and he gave a huge sigh of relief, almost as if he’d expected somebody else to be there.

‘Smells nice.’

‘Please ignore the smell.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m sorry. There won’t be any curry after all.’

He gave a gurgle of amusement. He was going out of his way to be pleasant. ‘It’s done. I can smell it. Where is it?’

‘It’s gone.’

‘Gone? Gone where?’

‘Down the toilet.’

‘Is this a joke, Rosie? You wouldn’t make fun of me?’

‘It was a bad curry. You couldn’t possibly have eaten it. I’m going to try and do something else instead. It won’t take long, I promise. Do you like omelettes?’

‘Please — my curry — what went wrong?’

He put it to her with good-natured concern, as if enquiring after the health of a friend. Rose felt compelled to give him an answer. What she told him, however, was a lie. If he was convinced that his wife had set a trap to poison him, he’d go straight to the police. Even if he was unconvinced, he would want an explanation. As sure as God made little apples, the truth about Barry would come out.

She did her best to make it plausible. ‘I suppose I was nervous. Something went wrong in the cooking.’

‘You burnt it?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘I can’t smell burning.’

‘No. It was what went into it. The ingredients. They weren’t right. I’d like to try again tomorrow, if you’ll allow me. I’ll get it right next time. Now will you please let me cook you an omelette or a fried egg or something?’

His eyes had a sceptical glint. He crossed the room to the sink and ran his forefinger around the inner side of the saucepan Rose had half-filled with water.

She moved fast. She reached out to him and grasped his sleeve. ‘Don’t!’

‘You don’t let me taste? Not even taste?’

She snatched up a teacloth and wiped his finger clean. ‘Not even taste.’

He laughed and took a grip on her hand through the towel and squeezed it. She had her back to the draining board so she couldn’t easily move.

‘You know what I think you are, Rosie — apart from Antonia’s best friend?’

Her neck and shoulders tensed. She was suddenly convinced that he’d misinterpreted her actions and was about to make a pass. She was in no state to deal with it. She swayed back and took a shallow, rasping breath.

His hand darted to her face and lightly pinched the point of her chin. ‘A fusspot. A proper little fusspot.’

It was embarrassing on both sides. Faced with her jittery reaction he’d fallen back on a fatuous gesture and the sort of silly, doting thing said by middle-aged men to their simpering wives. He must have felt it as acutely as she, because he backed off at once.

Rose turned to the sink and made a performance of wiping the saucepan clean as her mind raced. Perhaps she’d been mistaken. Perhaps he’d only meant to make light of the problem over the curry. He’d responded to her state of nerves by touching her. It was innocent, a spontaneous gesture.

When Hector’s voice came again it was from a safe distance. ‘I’ll make a bargain with you, Rosie. You cook me curry tomorrow. Tonight I will take you to Reggiori’s.’

She looked across the table at him. He was still wearing his camelhair overcoat and he’d picked up his porkpie hat. ‘I couldn’t possibly.’

‘One little mistake in the cooking and you lose your confidence? This is not good, Rosie.’

‘I’ll make the curry. I said I would. What I mean is that I couldn’t under any circumstances go out to dinner with you.’ She turned to face him across the table. ‘It’s not the right way to behave, you see. I can’t be seen having dinner with someone else’s husband.’

‘You did the other night.’

‘Antonia was with us.’

‘So the people in Reggiori’s know it’s all right. Rosie is Antonia’s friend, not Hector’s lover.’

She felt the colour spread across her face. Mortifying. ‘Please allow me to cook you something else.’

‘Not possible.’ He was adamant, like a chess-player who knew he had mate in three. ‘I had no lunch today.’

‘No lunch. But why?’

‘Antonia told you. I never eat lunch. Only this meal. Now I need — how do you say? — a square meal. Not omelette.’

‘Anything else would take hours to prepare.’

‘Not at Reggiori’s.’

She couldn’t. What sort of woman would dine in public with a married man the week after she’d buried her husband? It would be deplorable. Yet she felt piercingly guilty for depriving Hector of the meal he’d looked forward to eating. The possibility had to be faced that she’d been mistaken about the poison and thrown away a perfectly good meal. And she knew Hector objected to going to restaurants alone; it wasn’t some stratagem he’d just thought up. It was her whole justification for being here.

He lifted her coat off the hook on the back of the door. ‘All right, Rosie. Please forget what I said. I will take you home now.’

She was caught off guard. ‘Where will you eat?’

He gave a shrug. ‘I don’t know. I don’t intend to starve. I will come home, look in the fridge, make myself a sandwich.’

From the fridge. ‘No.’

He arched his eyebrows.

She had a picture of him opening the fridge and finding the rest of the meat, or something else that Antonia had laced with poison. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

He thoughtfully suggested they sat at a table for four rather than one of the more intimate doubles. To anyone interested it must have seemed that they expected to be joined by the rest of their party later.

‘You look nervous, Rosie.’

‘I am, a little.’

‘You want some wine?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Not many people are here so early as you and me.’

‘No.’

‘That’s good?’

‘Yes.’

He made a noble effort to be entertaining, talking of the gadgets he’d seen at the exhibition and the way women’s lives would soon be transformed. For a man, he had some revolutionary ideas. Most women would have thought of them as mutinous. He talked about the drudgery of housework and rejected the idea that it was a proof of virtue. ‘All that scrubbing of doorsteps. What for? So that all the neighbours will say she’s a good woman like us, scrubs her step every day. Rosie, very soon all those good women will get red hands and lumpy knees. Don’t be like that.’

She smiled faintly. ‘What should I do, then — buy one of your machines? Do you supply a doorstep-scrubbing machine?’

‘No. There is no market for such a machine. Simply forget about your doorstep.’

‘And have all my neighbours think I’m a slut?’

‘The women maybe. Men think something else. What nice legs this lady has.’

She looked primly down at her plate. Being foreign, he may not have appreciated how personal some of his remarks appeared.

‘It’s true. You have legs like Betty Grable’s. Better.’

‘I’m sure you mean it kindly, but I wish you’d talk about something else.’

‘Not your legs?’

‘Not my legs.’

‘Your chest?’

Her arm jerked and she spilled some soup. She picked her napkin off her lap and rearranged it, trying frantically to think of something to divert him from this tack. ‘I wonder if Antonia will telephone you tonight.’

‘Excuse me, Rosie. My English. I don’t think you understand. I said “chest”. Is it more suitable to say “chests”?’

‘It’s unsuitable however you say it. Perhaps she telephoned you earlier? I dare say she would want you to know she’d arrived safely.’

‘I am so sorry. I think I embarrass you with my bad grammar.’

‘It’s not the grammar.’

‘You don’t think so?’

‘It’s the personal things you mention.’

‘I understand. I think I mean bust. Can I say you have a pretty fine bust?’

Through iron persistence she succeeded at length in directing his thoughts to Antonia. It appeared that he didn’t expect a phone call. They didn’t phone each other unless it was necessary. They had nothing to say to each other. ‘Antonia, she doesn’t understand me.’

‘Oh, yes?’ Rose kept her response as bland as possible. Of all the come-ons men resorted to, that was the corniest.

He tried to do better. ‘She has a friend. A man friend. You know?’

‘It’s none of my business.’

‘This friend is off to America soon. Nice new job. Princeton University. Antonia wants to go with him.’

‘Mm?’

‘Yes. It’s true. You can ask her.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of asking her a thing like that.’

‘Antonia and me, we sleep single.’

Opportunely the arrival of the main course foreclosed discussion of the sleeping arrangements. Hector had ordered Dover sole in breadcrumbs, which he explained wouldn’t spoil his appetite for the curry Rose had promised for the next evening. She didn’t want to be reminded about tomorrow. Getting through the present evening without misunderstanding was as much as she could cope with.

He gave her the cue for a more congenial line of conversation. ‘So you were one of the WAAFs, like Antonia?’

‘Yes. At Kettlesham Heath. I expect she’s told you about it many times.’

‘But I would like to hear from you. What did you do?’

‘I was a plotter, like Antonia. In an underground control room. Very hush-hush. We had to sign a paper promising not to say anything about our work.’

He seemed to find this amusing. ‘Ladies talk so much they can’t keep no secret.’

‘You’re mistaken. We’re much more discreet than the average man.’

‘Yes?’ He gave her a silly grin and she almost lost patience with him. His own life was threatened and he was so complacent that he hadn’t a hope of finding out.

‘Take Antonia. She’s much more guarded than you appreciate. If she has a reason to keep something to herself, nothing will drag it from her.’

‘You think?’

‘I’m certain.’

His expression changed. ‘Rosie, you are right about Antonia. She is a plotter still.’

She hesitated. He was an eager listener and she was on the brink of saying too much. ‘Most of us women have our secret hopes and plans, if that’s what you mean. Anyway, I was telling you about Kettlesham Heath. It was demanding work — sheer hell sometimes — and we couldn’t afford to make mistakes. Actually Antonia was the most reliable of all the girls on watch. She didn’t get tense. She could talk and joke and keep everyone smiling and never lose her concentration.’

‘She was popular?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Plenty of officers went out with her. It’s all right, she told me this.’ ‘Well, yes.’

‘And you, Rosie? Did you have plenty?’

She allowed herself to smile. ‘I wouldn’t describe it in quite those terms. I wasn’t so popular as Antonia. If I’d been asked I’d have gone out with almost any officer with wings. Any of us would. It was a question of prestige. Good looks and age came a long way after rank. They had to have stripes on their sleeves and the more the better. Funny, isn’t it? There were some good-looking fellows among the sergeant pilots, but to go out with them was slumming. It was the service mentality, I suppose. Silly. I married a wing commander.’ She stopped and lowered her eyes. She hadn’t wanted to mention Barry.

Anyone with a modicum of tact would have moved to another subject. Hector sat up in his seat and leaned on his elbows and gave her a penetrating stare as if nothing interested him so much. ‘Tell me, Rosie, do you miss your husband?’

She frowned. His dark eyes locked with hers and it was almost like being interrogated. She wondered for a petrifying moment if he suspected something. Then with a sense of relief she realized what this was about. How typical of a man, she thought. He thinks I’m on the lookout for someone. How can I possibly convey to him that those stories about freshly widowed women falling for the next man who passes the time of day with them are untrue, quite monstrously untrue?

‘I should never have got married.’

‘You don’t miss him, then?’

‘I’d rather talk about something else.’

‘Won’t you try again?’

‘It’s most unlikely.’

‘You will get lonely.’

‘I don’t suppose I will.’

‘You are very pretty. Some fellow will ask to marry you soon.’

It was a long time since anyone had paid her any kind of compliment. In her situation it was inopportune, but better than an insult. Or an interrogation.

‘Shall we look at the menu again?’

He looked mystified. ‘I spoke something wrong?’

It might have been uncharitable, but she had a suspicion that Hector was overplaying the part of the foreigner baffled by English. He’d lived in America and England for fifteen years or so and must have used the language pretty effectively to earn the money he had.

They decided to have coffee instead of desserts. He offered her a liqueur. She thanked him and said no, adding that she didn’t want to stop him from having one. She smoked a cigarette while he had a brandy. She needed the smoke. She’d staunched the flow of personal remarks, but she felt uneasy. His eyes never left hers. She didn’t know if it was her imagination or if he was planning something.

As they were collecting their coats, he suggested she waited inside the restaurant while he fetched the car, which he’d parked in a side street.

‘That isn’t necessary. I’ll take the tube from here. The meal was delicious. Thank you.’ She thrust her arms into the coat and made a decisive move towards the door. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Rosie!’ He caught up with her outside and clutched her arm to restrain her. ‘I said I will drive you.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Excuse me, but why not?’

She was flustered, so the words that came out sounded more ungrateful than she intended. ‘You wanted a meal and I came with you out of politeness. Now would you please let go of my arm?’

He walked beside her as she set off smartly along Euston Road. ‘Please, did I say something wrong tonight?’

‘You’re making this very difficult.’

‘I cannot allow this, Rosie.’

‘Hector, I’m not your property.’

This had a startling effect. He flung up his arms as if in surrender. ‘Forgive me. I should never have said such things. You are Antonia’s friend. You come specially to my house to cook a nice meal for me. What disgusting manners I have!’

They’d reached a street corner and had to stop for the traffic. Some people standing there had picked up Hector’s last remark and turned round. He must have seemed comical making an exhibition of himself in his expensive overcoat and porkpie hat. Rose didn’t find it amusing.

She made a sideward step and tried to give the impression she was unaccompanied. Hector didn’t move. He simply raised his voice. ‘Please forgive me. Allow me to be a gentleman and drive you safe home.’

She looked to right and left, hoping to God that the underground sign was somewhere about. An elderly couple had joined the group at the curb. The woman was trying to prompt Rose by nodding and smiling.

Hector was oblivious of his audience. ‘Don’t go down the tube, Rosie.’

It was like an echo of the old tear-jerking ballad ‘Don’t go down the mine, Daddy’. Ludicrous. This could only get more embarrassing. He wouldn’t give up. And she didn’t want it to end in a blazing row.

She spun around. ‘All right. Which way is the car?’

After all, she’d made her point. He could be in no doubt now that she wanted him to remain at arm’s length.

During the drive to Oldfield Gardens Hector behaved impeccably. He was charming and witty. He talked glowingly of the curry she had promised him the next day and how in order to put his mind at rest he planned to lock the toilet door and hide the key. She took it in good part and said she could think of dozens of ways of disposing of a curry and some of them were very messy indeed, so he’d better leave the toilet open and trust his luck and hers.

‘This your street, Rosie?’

‘Yes, don’t you remember? The house at the end, opposite the hoarding.’

He drew in and braked.

She turned and leaned back slightly in the same movement to keep her face out of range. ‘Thank you. It was a splendid meal.’

‘Only second best.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘We’ll find out tomorrow, eh?’

‘If you’re still willing to risk it. Hector...?’

‘Yes?’

‘There is still some meat in the fridge. You won’t use any, will you?’

‘You think I want to cook a midnight feast? Without anyone to share?’

‘I just wanted to mention it.’

He laughed softly. ‘Rosie, believe me, I don’t touch nothing.’

She opened the car door, profoundly relieved at getting home without incident. On an impulse she reached out and put her hand over his, squeezing his fingers slightly. ‘Tomorrow, then.’