Ruth Rendell - Adam And Eve And Pinch Me

But Zillah soon discovered that she need not have worried. Another woman going on the program looked, in her tracksuit and unmade-up state, as if she’d just got out of bed. The makeup department dealt with all that, dried Zillah’s hair, cleaned her shoes, redid her face. The other woman told her confidingly that she’d been appearing on shows of this kind for years. She’d go along wearing laddered tights, knowing they’d give her a new pair. Zillah was shocked but delighted to learn these tricks of the trade. She’d begun to feel a lot better.

But when the program began and she was able to watch it, sitting with the other interviewees-to-be in a waiting room, she realized something she must have been told but that hadn’t sunk in. It was live. There would be no rehearsal, no preparation, and no chance to say she hadn’t meant that, cut that, please, or can we go back? The questions were very searching and even the inexperienced could tell they weren’t kind. A young man, who looked very young, put his head round the door and beckoned to the tights woman. She would be the next-Zillah found herself using the word “victim.”

It was a strange feeling watching the screen and seeing her walk onto the set. Zillah suddenly felt naive and rather helpless. The woman, whom she hadn’t recognized, turned out to be a pop singer of the seventies trying to make a comeback. The presenter, an ugly man with a beard and the rasping voice that had made him famous, asked her if she didn’t think she was “a bit over the hill” for what she had in mind. She wasn’t exactly Posh Spice, was she? Maybe she’d like to sing for them now. They’d an accompanist on hand. The singer answered the questions bravely and sang not very well. While she was singing the young man came back and beckoned to the teenage boy who was there because he’d got into Oxford at the age of fifteen. Zillah would be the last.

“They always save the best till last,” said a girl who’d come in to see if she wanted more coffee or orange juice.

After the singer came a woman reading the news, then a weather forecast, then advertising of the programs for the day ahead. She thought the singer might come back but she didn’t. The boy came on and was interviewed by a kindly woman presenter who treated him as if he’d won the Nobel Prize. Zillah had been told that the man with the rasping voice would be talking to her but she found herself hoping that plans had changed and she might get this woman who was now telling the boy that his family must be enormously proud of him. And he wasn’t even very good, but shy and tongue-tied.

Zillah was called. The girl who’d inquired about coffee and orange juice led her along one passage and then another and onto the edge of what seemed like theater-in-the-round, a circular platform, partly screened and curtained, thick with cameramen and soundmen and electricians. The brightly lit area she’d seen on the screen could just be seen in the center.

“When I give you a sign, I’ll lift my finger like this,” whispered the girl, “you walk on from here and sit in that chair opposite Sebastian. Okay?”

“Yes, that’s fine,” said Zillah loudly.

Everyone in her vicinity turned and shushed her, fingers on lips. Such confidence as she had left began to ebb. Her heels were too high, she knew that now. Suppose she tripped? The boy genius came off and so did the kindly woman interviewer. The man called Sebastian told viewers they were now to expect the guest of the day, Zillah Melcombe-Smith, bigamist wife-or was she?-of the disgraced MP James Melcombe-Smith, and widow-or was she?-of the Cinema Slayer’s victim. Zillah suddenly felt very cold. That kind of introduction wasn’t at all what she’d expected. But the girl who’d brought her here was holding up one finger, so she had no option but to set off on what seemed like the longest and slowest walk of her life to the chair opposite Sebastian.

He stared at her as if she were something peculiar in a zoo, an okapi or echidna. “Welcome to A Bite of Breakfast , Zillah,” he said. “Tell us what it feels like to be a widow, a wife, and a bigamist all at once. It can’t happen to many women, d’you think?”

Zillah said, “No,” and, “No, it can’t,” but could think of nothing else.

“Well, let’s start with the bigamy, shall we? Maybe you’re one of those people who don’t approve of divorce. A Catholic, are you?”

Her voice came out thin and hoarse. “I’m not.” Suppose her mother was watching! She’d only just thought of that. “My husband-my first husband said we were divorced. And my husband-my present husband, I mean-he said I was.” Whatever she didn’t do, she had to stick to that. “I thought I was divorced.”

“But when you married James in the House of Commons Chapel”-the way he said it made it sound like St. Peter’s in Rome-“you told the vicar you were single. A single girl and fancy free, that was about it, wasn’t it?”

Why had no one picked on that till now? Her tone trembled: “James…James thought it best. James said…I didn’t know I was doing wrong. I thought I…I…”

“Well, never mind. It all came right for a while with your first husband’s tragic death in the cinema. A terrible thing, of course, but in some ways it happened at just the right time. What was your reaction?”

Her reaction in the here and now was to burst into tears. She couldn’t help it. She felt driven into a corner from which the only escape was to be led away to prison. Falling forward, anything to stop looking into his awful bearded face, she put her head on her knees and sobbed. What he was doing, saying, what all those cameramen and soundmen were doing, she didn’t know. She felt a touch on her shoulder, jerked up, put her head back, and howled. The kindly woman presenter took her arm, helped her up. She couldn’t really tell because of the beard, but Sebastian seemed to be smiling. Behind her, she heard him say something for the benefit of viewers about her being overcome with grief. Still on camera, she did what she’d feared to do, tripped and nearly fell over. As she left the set, crying and limping, a cameraman whispered, “Great television. It’s what presenters dream of.”

That program was really the end of the battle for Zillah. She went back to Abbey Gardens Mansions in a cab. It was still only nine o’clock. The children were watching television and she recognized the same channel as that on which she’d just appeared.

“Did you do that on purpose?” asked Eugenie. “That crying and falling over?”

“Of course I didn’t. I was upset.”

“When he said about your first husband’s tragic death, what did he mean?”

Zillah had never thought about that, about the children watching the program and in this way, this terrible way, learning about their father’s death. Looking into Eugenie’s beautiful, troubled, reproachful face, she could tell that the child knew, but still she couldn’t answer her. Not now , not in the midst of all she was going through.

“That’s why we never see him,” said Eugenie.

“I’ll tell you later, I promise I will.”

“Your mascara has run all down your face.”

Zillah said she was going to wash. “Where’s Jims?”

“In bed. He didn’t go out and leave us alone, if that’s what you think.”

She wanted to tell the child not to speak to her like that, but she was afraid. It was a dreadful admission to make, that she was afraid of her own seven-year-old daughter. Nevertheless, it was true. How would it be when Eugenie was a teenager? She would be able to do exactly as she liked with her mother, she would rule the place. Willow Cottage, Long Fredington, Dorset. Zillah realized she was resigned to returning there. Consulting lawyers was no longer feasible. Jordan was crying again. He’d probably been crying since before she came in and while she was talking to Eugenie, but she hadn’t even noticed, she was so used to it by now. They were due at the child psychiatrist’s in an hour’s time.