Ruth Rendell - The Bridesmaid

As soon as he got to Tarsus Street that evening, he told Senta what he had seen. She looked at him. Most people, when they say they look into the eyes of another, in fact look into only one eye. Senta actually looked into both his eyes and, because this always made her squint, gave her an expression of concentrated intensity. Her lips were parted a little, her clear, green-flecked eyes very wide open, with the pupils turned towards one another.

“It doesn’t matter so long as she’s not found out, does it?”

He tried laughing at her. “That’s not a very moral way of looking at things.”

She was deadly serious. She spoke pedantically. “But we don’t subscribe to conventional morality, Philip. After all, in that sort of morality the very worst thing anyone can do is kill someone. Don’t you think you’re being a hypocrite condemning poor Cheryl for a very trifling thing when you’ve done murder yourself?”

“I’m not condemning her,” he said for something to say, something to express, because his thoughts were inexpressible: did she really believe he had killed John Crucifer while knowing her own confession was a fantasy? “I only want to know what to do. What shall I do?”

He meant what should he do about Cheryl. Senta was indifferent, he could tell that, absorbed with herself and him. She was smiling.

“Come and live here with me.”

It had the effect she must have wanted, and brought temporary forgetfulness of Cheryl. “Do you mean that, Senta? In the top flat? Can we?”

“I thought you’d be pleased.”

“Of course I’m pleased. But you—you don’t feel comfortable up there. I don’t want you making yourself miserable for me.”

“Philip, I have to tell you something.” Again the bracing of his nerves, the tensing of muscles, as he awaited revelations. But quite suddenly he knew it would be all right, what she was going to say. And it was all right, it was more than that. “I love you so much,” she said. “I love you far, far more than I ever thought I would when we first met. Isn’t that funny? I knew I’d been looking for you and I’d found you, but I didn’t know I was capable of loving anyone the way I love you.”

He took her in his arms and held her close against him. “Senta, you’re my love, you’re my angel.”

“So you see I couldn’t feel uncomfortable anywhere with you. I couldn’t be miserable when I’m with you. Wherever I am with you I’d be happy. I’m happy all the time I know you love me.” She put up her face and kissed him. “I asked Rita about the flat and she said she didn’t see why not. She says she wouldn’t want rent. Of course, that means she could throw us out when she wanted, we wouldn’t have a proper tenancy.”

He was surprised at Senta’s unusual practicality, her actually knowing about things like that. Then he understood what it also meant: he would be able to go on paying Christine without continuing to live in her house. This might be his release from Christine and Cheryl and Glenallan Close, and an honourable release.

It was a long time now since he had even glanced at a newspaper. Newspapers he had avoided along with television and the radio, but had he avoided them because he was afraid of what he might see? He hardly knew what he meant by that himself. Surely not that if he knew a hunt was mounted for Joley’s killer, it would make him afraid?

Sometimes he imagined that his confession to Senta had been overheard, that there were people walking about the streets who had heard him admit to killing John Crucifer. He half expected Christine to tell him the police had called, or to hear from Roy that they had been enquiring for him at head office. These things worried him for moments at a time, and then he would come to himself and see what folly all this was, the stuff of nightmares and fantasies. But when he went to the warehouse at Uxbridge to search through the marble tops they had in stock, in the hope of finding one which had no fissures anywhere in its veining, a motorcycle policeman was outside. This man was only taking the name and particulars of some traffic offender, but for a moment Philip experienced a gut fear that had nothing to do with reason.

The first thing he heard when he got in was that Roy was off sick “with a bug” and that Mr. Aldridge wanted to see him “the minute he arrived if not sooner.” Mr. Aldridge was the managing director of Roseberry Lawn.

Philip didn’t feel nervous about it. He was sure he hadn’t stepped out of line. He went up in the lift, and Mr. Aldridge’s secretary, who sat by herself in the outer office, said to go straight in. He expected to be asked to sit down. By now he had some optimistic ideas that he might have been called there to be congratulated or even that promotion was coming.

Aldridge was seated, but he let Philip stand on the other side of the desk. His glasses had slipped halfway down his nose, and he looked rather sour. What he wanted to tell Philip was that Olivia Brett had complained about his behaviour, had described him as insufferably rude and insulting, and would Philip like to explain?

“What does she say I said?”

“You’re getting this firsthand, I hope you realise that. She phoned and spoke to me personally. Apparently, you made a disgusting remark, something lavatorial, about the shower she’s having installed, and when she didn’t laugh at this famous joke of yours, you told her you were afraid you couldn’t waste any more time on her, you had more important things to do.”

“It isn’t true,” Philip said hotly. “I thought, she led me to think—well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. But she was the one made the remark about the shower, not me.”

Aldridge said, “I’ve always admired her. When I’ve seen her on TV, I’ve always thought her one of our loveliest actresses, a real English lady. If you imagine I could for a moment credit that a beautiful and refined woman like her would make a cheap joke of that sort—and she brought herself to tell me explicitly exactly what was said, though I needn’t repeat it—you’re thicker than I take you for. Frankly, I don’t think you’re thick, I think you’re devious and underhand. I don’t think you’ve begun to understand the kind of unwavering courtesy and consideration to our customers which is the highest aim of Roseberry Lawn. Now you can go away and never—repeat, never—give any lady or gentleman cause to make a complaint like that again.”

It upset him because he hadn’t known that people can be as bad as that. He had never supposed that a successful, good-looking, famous, and rich woman, with everything going for her, would take such a mean revenge on a man simply because that man had backed out of making love to her. It made him feel sick and sore. But there was no use in giving in to it. He got back into the car and drove to Uxbridge where, searching through twenty marble vanity unit tops encased in flat cardboard cartons, he at last found one that was free of fissures.

On his way back to London he bought an evening paper. He hadn’t expected there to be anything in it about Joley’s death, but he was surprised to see a photograph of frogmen searching the Regent’s Canal for the weapon police believed might have been used to kill John Crucifer.

“I’ve got the part, I’ve got the part,” she sang to him, rushing into his arms. “I’m so happy, I’ve got the part!”

“What part is that?”

“I heard this morning. My agent phoned me. You remember the part I auditioned for? I told you about it. It’s the part of the mad girl in Impatience.”

“You’ve got a part in a TV serial, Senta?”

“It’s not the lead, but it’s more interesting than the lead. This is my really big chance. It’s going to be in six episodes, and I’m to be in every episode except the first one. The casting director said I’ve got a fascinating face. Aren’t you pleased for me, Philip, aren’t you pleased?”