Cooper Jilly: Emily

I was dying to go and tart up for Finn. Surreptitiously I levered myself out of bed.

‘Where are you going?’ said Rory, without turning round.

‘To the loo,’ I said.

‘Again?’ said Rory. ‘You’ve just been.’

‘I’ve got a bit of an upset stomach,’ I said, sliding towards the door.

‘I should have thought it was hardly necessary, then, to take your bag with you,’ said Rory.

‘Oh,’ I said, blushing and putting my bag on the table.

In the bathroom there was nothing to do my face with. I washed and took the shine off my nose with some of Rory’s talcum powder, and tidied my hair with Walter Scott’s brush. I got back into bed. Rory was still painting ferociously. Very cautiously I eased my bag off the table and just as cautiously opened it. Of course, my bottle of Arpège was at the bottom. I’d scrabbled my way down there, managed to unscrew the top, and was just about to empty some over my wrists when Rory turned round and my bag, plus all its contents and the unstoppered scent bottle, fell with an appalling crash to the floor.

Rory was not amused. We were in the middle of a full-dress row when Finn rang the doorbell. Rory went to let him in. I shoved the bag and all its contents under the bed. The whole room stank of scent like a brothel.

Finn came in, looking boot-faced, but he smiled when he saw me. Rory went and stood with his back to the fire, his eyes moving from Finn to me.

‘All right, Rory, I won’t be long,’ said Finn dismissively, and picked up my wrist.

‘I’ll stay if you don’t mind,’ said Rory.

‘Well I do,’ I snapped. ‘I feel like a biology lesson surrounded by medical students with you both in here.’

‘I’ll turn my back if you like,’ said Rory, ‘but keep your thieving hands off her, Doctor,’ and he gazed out of the window, whistling Mozart.

‘How are you feeling?’ said Finn gently. ‘Are you eating all right?’

‘Like a horse,’ said Rory.

‘I am not,’ I snapped. I grabbed Finn’s hand.

‘No need to feel Finn’s pulse, Emily,’ said Rory.

‘Oh shut up,’ I said.

Finn was a bit like a dignified cart-horse with a couple of mongrels rowing between his legs.

‘It’s not fair,’ I said to Rory afterwards. ‘Look at the way you and Marina carry on.’

‘We’re not talking about me and Marina,’ said Rory, his eyes glittering with strain and exasperation. Walter Scott was noisily eating a coat-hanger in the corner.

‘Walter thinks your behaviour is appalling,’ I said, ‘and he knows all about dogs in the manger.’

A week went by. I corrected the proofs of the catalogue for Rory’s exhibition. He was painting frantically; wild, swirling, self-absorbed canvases of savage intensity: babies with no arms or legs, feeling their way into life; the agonized features of women giving birth. They were ghastly, hideous paintings but of staggering power. For the first time it occurred to me that Rory might have minded my losing the baby.

He was like a mine-field: one would inadvertently tread on him and he’d explode and smoulder for hours. He was always worse after the times Finn came to see me.

Each time I found Finn increasingly more remote. I couldn’t even talk to him because Rory stayed in the room all the time, scowling. It was horribly embarrassing.

Then one night I woke up to find Rory standing by the bed. The fire was dying in the grate. Outside the window the sea gleamed like a python.

‘W-what’s the matter?’ I said nervously.

‘I’ve finished the last painting.’

I sat up sleepily. ‘How clever you are. Have you been working all night?’

He nodded. There were great black smudges under his eyes.

‘You must be exhausted.’

‘A bit. I thought we ought to celebrate.’

He poured champagne into two glasses.

‘What time is it?’ I said.

‘About five-thirty.’

I took a gulp of champagne. It was icy cold and utterly delicious.

‘We ought to be sitting on a bench in a rose garden, after a Common Ball,’ I said with a giggle. ‘You in an evening shirt all covered in my lipstick, and me in a bra-strap dinner frock and a string of pearls.’

He laughed and sat down on the bed. Suddenly I was as jumpy as a cat in his presence — it was as if I were a virgin and he and I had never been to bed together.

He leaned forward and brushed a strand of hair back from my forehead — and it happened. Shocks, rockets, warning bells, the lot, and I knew, blindly, that the old magic was working and I was utterly hooked on him again. Emily the pushover — lying in the gutter with a lion standing over her.

Rory, however, seemed unaware of the chemical change that had taken place in me.

‘Oughtn’t you to get some sleep?’ I said.

‘I’ve got to pack up the canvases,’ he said. ‘Buster’s taking them down to London in his plane.’ Then he said, not looking at me, ‘He’s giving me a lift to Edinburgh.’

Panic swept over me. It was Thursday. Marina’s singing lesson day. Oh, God, oh, God, Rory was obviously going to meet her.

‘What are you going to Edinburgh for?’ I said in a frozen voice.

‘To see an American about an exhibition in New York. And a couple of press boys want to talk to me about the London exhibition.’

‘When are you coming back?’ I said.

‘Tonight. My mother’s giving a party for my aunt. She’s arriving from Paris this evening — you’re invited. I think you should come. They’re pretty amazing, my aunt and my mother, when they get together. It’d do you good to get out.’

I lay back in bed trying to stop myself crying. Rory bent over and kissed me on the forehead.

‘Try and get some more sleep,’ he said.

Mrs Mackie, our daily woman, came to look after me while he was away. Her gossiping nearly drove me insane. I washed my hair and shut myself away in the studio to get away from her.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door.

‘Someone to see you,’ said Mrs Mackie.

And Marina walked in.

I felt weak with relief, as though a great thorn had been pulled out of my side. So Rory hadn’t gone to Edinburgh to see her. I wanted to fling my arms round her neck.

‘Hello,’ I said, grinning from ear to ear.

She seemed shattered by the warmth of my reception.

‘Are you going to Coco’s party tonight? Hamish wants to, but I’m not sure if I can face it.’

‘Oh, I am,’ I said, suddenly feeling I wanted to sing from the rooftops. ‘It should be a giggle — if Coco’s sister’s anything like her.’

Marina looked terrible. Her eyes were hidden behind huge amber sunglasses, her face chalky. She looked like someone who was shaking off gastric ’flu.

‘Are you all right?’ I said suddenly, feeling sorry for her.

‘Not very,’ she said. ‘I’m suffering from a broken heart. Can I have a drink?’

I gave her a huge slug of Rory’s whisky. She looked at the golden liquid for a minute, then said: ‘Has Rory said anything about me?’

I shook my head.

‘Oh, God.’ She put her head in her hands. ‘I’ve spent days and days waiting for the Master to ring, but the Master did not ring. He obviously doesn’t wish to avail himself of the service.’

‘Are you still… well, crazy about him?’

‘Of course I am!’ she screamed, her eyes suddenly wild. ‘And he’s crazy about me. Nothing will ever cure that.’

I didn’t flinch — I was making great strides in self-control these days.

‘He’s crazy about me, but he feels guilty about you losing the baby. He thinks you’ve had a lousy deal, so he’s got to grit his teeth and try and make a go of it.’