Ruth Rendell - Adam And Eve And Pinch Me

The newspaper which had bought Natalie’s story was not one that was normally delivered to 7 Abbey Gardens Mansions. Zillah had put in a special order for it. She woke up very early on Saturday morning, about two hours earlier than usual, happily anticipating the arrival of the papers. On the previous afternoon, having checked that her generous monthly allowance from Jims had been paid into her bank account, she had phoned Moon and Stars Television. They would send a car for her first thing on Monday morning so that she could appear on A Bite of Breakfast . Mrs. Peacock having dismissed herself, Zillah had made an arrangement with the young Iranian girl who cleaned at number nine to stay over Sunday night and be there for Eugenie and Jordan in the morning. At the same time, putting her house entirely in order, she’d fixed an appointment with a child psychiatrist.

Thinking about Jims being stricken by disaster brought her a lot of pleasure. She knew for a fact he had no morning papers delivered to Fredington Crucis House and wouldn’t, in any case, have seen this one, which he habitually referred to as a “backstreet rag.” The likelihood was that he’d be ten minutes into his appointments before he found out. Some hard-done-by citizen of Toneborough, anxious about his council tax, his hound puppy-walking, or his incapacity benefit, would be bound to bring a copy of the rag with him. She hadn’t felt so happy since she walked up the aisle to marry him at St. Mary Undercroft.

Just as the newspaper dropped onto the doormat at seven o’clock, Jordan woke up and started crying. Zillah picked him up, stuck him in his high chair-surely he shouldn’t still be in a high chair?-gave him orange juice and what he ought not to have, what would rot his teeth and set him on the path to obesity, a chocolate bar. Then she lay on the sofa and looked at the paper.

The front page almost frightened her. A very large headline read: THE GAY MP, TWO WEDDINGS, AND A FUNERAL. The picture of her was one she hadn’t seen before. It must have been taken in those halcyon days when she was being photographed all the time and had perhaps been previously rejected because it was unflattering. For once, Zillah didn’t mind. She looked distraught, as if she hardly knew which way to turn. Her face was half covered by one hand and stray locks of hair, greasy-looking, protruded between the splayed fingers. That was the day, she remembered now, when she hadn’t been expecting the photographer. To the left of it, in a kind of before and after arrangement, was the pre-first wedding picture of her and Jims, both of them smiling, relaxed, happy.

There was virtually no text. For that she had to turn to page three. There, too, was one of her own Maldives shots, Jims unmistakably Jims, his hand on the bare thigh of an unrecognizable young man with his face half turned away and in shadow. The trickle of fear returned. What would he do when he read it? What would he do to her ? Was he reading it now or was he still blissfully asleep at Fredington Crucis House, unaware of what awaited him? She read her own words: “ I honestly thought I was free to remarry. Poor Jeff” -she’d never called him that in all their life together-

“told me we were legally divorced. Then when he was killed and I found out my mistake I realized I was-tragically-freed by his death. Our marriage had not been a happy one, down to his frequent affairs with other women. Just the same, his murder was a devastating blow, as was discovering the other side to James’s nature. That happened when he brought his lover on our honeymoon…”

Mrs. Melcombe-Smith cries a lot these days. She was once more in tears when I asked her what she thought the future held for her and the MP for South Wessex. “All this has been horrendous but I will stand by him,” she said. “I don’t care what he’s done. I love him and I truly believe that in his heart he loves me.”

There was a good deal more but that line about standing by Jims, words she had certainly uttered to Natalie Reckman, she now reread with new eyes. When she said them she hadn’t given much thought to what she meant. It was just what wives in her sort of position traditionally said. She’d read it repeated in newspapers many times over the years. But now she thought of the reality. She rather liked the idea of seeing herself in the role of devoted and supportive wife, a woman who has been bitterly ill-used but who forgives and pours out renewed love. Not that this new part she contemplated playing would deflect her from appearing on A Bite of Breakfast . She wasn’t bound to forgive immediately…

In the few short months that had passed since her first wedding to Jims she had almost entirely lost her ignorance of how the media operate, but she still wasn’t aware that the newspaper she didn’t see until 7 A.M. might be read by rival journalists the night before. So she believed she had several hours in which to prepare herself before the pack of reporters and photographers presented themselves on the doorstep of Abbey Gardens Mansions. Jordan was crying again. She gave him cereal and a mug of milk. He put his hands into the milk as if it were a finger bowl and began a low keening that was halfway between a moan and a song.

Eugenie came down from her bedroom, demanding to know why everyone was up so early and what were all those people doing outside in the street. Zillah went to the window. They were here already, waiting for her. She wouldn’t attempt to exclude them this time, she wouldn’t hide herself or escape via the garage. They were welcome. She thought of all the women she’d heard of recently who’d broken into television or modeling careers or simply become celebrities of unspecified talent, through nothing more than getting themselves into the media for taking their clothes off in public or demonstrating against something or being victims. How much more success could a beautiful bigamist, widow of a murder victim, and wife of a newly outed gay MP, hope to enjoy?

But the pack mustn’t see her yet. Give her an hour in which to transform herself. Zillah ran her bath and took Jordan into it with her to shut him up.

ALL SATURDAY MORNING Sonovia kept her eye on the street and Mr. Kroot’s in particular, but Gertrude Pierce didn’t go home. She kept darting into her front room to look in case she missed her.

Laf came in, carrying a mug of coffee. “Why are you sitting there looking out of the window?”

“Nothing exciting ever happens in Syringa Road.”

“You should be thankful. What d’you want to happen?”

Sonovia ignored him. Mr. Kroot’s front door was opening. The old black cat came out and the door shut.

“D’you want to go out tonight?”

“Anything you like, only don’t bother me now, you’re spoiling my concentration.” Sonovia often reproached herself for not having been more vigilant when Jock Lewis was on the scene. How she regretted not ever seeing his face!

Laf looked up films in the paper. There was nothing on he and Sonovia would fancy. Besides, though he’d been a few times, he’d never enjoyed the cinema like he used to since the Jeffrey Leach murder. It was a funny thing for an officer of the Metropolitan Police to think, he ought to be hardened and indifferent, but the fact was that he always expected the flash of a knife when the person in front of him or behind got up, or thought he might trip over a body in the dark. Why not go to the theater instead? Laf had only been twice in his life, once to The Mousetrap when he was a kid and later on, for his fortieth birthday, to Miss Saigon . How about An Inspector Calls ? It sounded as if it might be about the police and therefore he’d get irritated if they got the police procedure wrong. On the other hand, he’d be able to tell Sonovia afterward just how inaccurate it had been. There were little bits of description of the play for each theater. Laf read that this one was an “acclaimed psychological thriller.” It didn’t sound bad. He got on the phone and booked three seats for eight-fifteen. Sonovia would be amazed and as for Minty…Laf looked forward to seeing Minty’s face when he told her.