Jilly Cooper - Harriet

‘That was so gorgeous,’ she said next morning when they woke up.

He grinned. ‘You’ll find it a perfect hobby, darling, and so cheap. I say,’ he added, ‘what’s your name?’

She gave a gurgle of laughter.

‘Harriet,’ she said. ‘Harriet Poole.’

‘I’ve never had a Harriet before.’ He lay back and laughed, ‘Oh I’m just wild about Harriet,’ and then he pulled her down on top of him.

For the next fortnight she had to keep pinching herself. Simon Villiers was her lover; the impossible had been achieved. They hardly got out of bed, except for the occasional excursion to the Randolph for breakfast, or an excursion to Hinksey Hill to see what making love was like in the snow. Harriet found it extremely cold, and nearly died of a heart attack when a cow looked over the fence and mooed at her.

Never in her life had she been so happy. Willingly she cooked for Simon, ironed his shirts rather badly, ran his errands, and submitted rapturously over and over again to his love-making.

‘You really do ad-dore it, don’t you?’ he drawled in amazement.

The snow seemed here to stay. The ploughs came and scattered salt and sand on the roads, but the houses and the parks were still blanketed in whiteness. Harriet was doing absolutely no work. Simon had forbidden her to wear her glasses, so work gave her a headache anyway. She rang both Theo Dutton and Geoffrey and told them she’d got ’flu. The weight fell off her; she lost over a stone living on wine and love.

Never had she met anyone so witty, so glamorous, so glorious as Simon. Only one thing nagged her, at this supreme moment in her life: she felt unable to describe him adequately in her diary. There was an elusiveness about his character that she couldn’t pin down; he seemed permanently to be playing someone other than himself, and watching himself doing it at the same time. Although books filled his flat, he never appeared to read, except theatre reviews in the paper or the odd stage magazine. When he watched television he was far more interested in the techniques of the actors and actresses, and in who was playing whom, than in the story.

It was only in the third week things started to go wrong. Simon had an audition in London with Buxton Philips. Not realizing it was early closing day, Harriet arrived too late to get his grey velvet suit out of the cleaners. She was shattered at the storm of abuse that broke over her when she got home.

‘But you’ve got hundreds of beautiful suits,’ she stammered.

‘Yes,’ hissed Simon, ‘but I wanted to wear this one,’ and he walked out of the house without even saying goodbye.

Harriet was supposed to be writing her essay on the sonnets, but she couldn’t stop crying. In the end she gave up working, wrote a poem to Simon, and spent hours making a moussaka, which she knew he liked.

He came back from London on the last train, if anything in a worse mood than when he left.

‘How did it go?’ she said nervously.

‘Bloody terrible! Buxton Philips didn’t show up.’

‘Oh no,’ wailed Harriet. How could anyone stand up Simon?

‘All I saw was some old bitch of a secretary. “Ay’m sorry, Mr Villiers, but it’s always wise to ring Mr Philips in the mornin’ to check he’s able to make it, he’s so busy.”’

‘Oh poor Simon.’ She got up and put her arms round him, but she could sense his detachment.

‘Fix me a drink,’ he said, pacing up and down the room. ‘In a few years’ time, that bastard’ll be crawling to me. “Ay’m sorry, Mr Philips, Mr Villiers is far too busy to see you.” He’ll regret this.’

‘Of course he will,’ said Harriet soothingly. ‘You’re going to be a big star, Simon. Everyone says so.’

She handed him a drink.

‘I missed you so much, I’ve even written you a poem,’ she said blushing. ‘I’ve never written anyone a poem before.’

She handed it to him.

Simon skimmed through it, his lips curling.

‘“Our love is like a rainbow arched in shuddering orgasm against the sky”,’ he read out in a deliberately melodramatic voice. ‘“Orgasm” in the singular? I must be slipping.’

Harriet flushed and bit her lip.

‘I also found this lovely sonnet, which describes exactly how I feel about you,’ she said hastily, handing him the volume of Shakespeare.

‘Harriet de-ah,’ sighed Simon, as he glanced at it, ‘if you knew the number of women who’ve quoted that poem at me! You’re in danger of getting soppy, sweetheart. I don’t mind women being romantic, but I can’t stand soppiness.’

She tried once again.

‘I’ve made some moussaka for supper,’ she said.

‘I’m bored with moussaka,’ said Simon.

She was still crying when he came to bed. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘I love you,’ said Harriet, in a choked voice. ‘Well, if you love me,’ said Simon softly, ‘you must like the whip.’

He woke up next morning in a better mood, and they made love, sat drinking coffee and reading the papers in bed until lunchtime. Harriet had forgotten the insults of last night, aware only of a swooning relief that everything was all right again. Her euphoria was short-lived. She was looking at the horoscopes.

‘It says I’m going to have a good day for romance,’ she giggled. ‘Perhaps I shall meet a tall dark stranger. I always dreamed I’d fall in love with someone tall and dark. Funny you should be small and blond.’

‘I am not small,’ said Simon icily.

She knew by the idle drumming of his fingers on the bedside table that there’d be trouble, that he’d bide his time and then retaliate without scruple. He started to read a piece about some famous actor’s sex life. When he came to the end he said:

‘That’s why I want to make it up the top. Apart from telling Buxton Philips to get stuffed, just think of the birds one could pull. Once you become a big star, you can virtually have any woman you want.’

There was a pause. Harriet felt faint at the thought of Simon having another woman. A great tear fell onto the paper she was reading, followed by another, and another.

‘What’s eating you ?’ said Simon.

She got clumsily out of bed; not wearing her spectacles and blinded by tears, she bumped into a table, knocking off a little Rockingham dalmatian that she knew Borzoi had given Simon. It smashed beyond redemption. Harriet was appalled.

‘I’ll buy you another, Simon, truly I will.’

‘As it cost about £80, I think that’s extremely unlikely,’ he snapped. ‘For God’s sake stop snivelling. It’s bad enough you breaking it, without making that Godawful din. I’m hungry. Go and put on the moussaka, and then have a bath, but don’t forget to leave the water in.’

Harriet lay in the bath, trying not to cry and wondering what it would be like to be married to Simon. ‘Harriet Villiers’ had a splendid seventeenth century ring. Could she cope with being the wife of a superstar? Some stage marriages she knew lasted for ever. She wouldn’t be a drag on him; when he was away acting, she’d have her poems and novels to write; she might even write a play for him.

She could just see the first night notices:

‘Simon Villiers’s wife is not beautiful in the classical sense, but there is an appealing sensitivity, a radiance about this brilliant young playwright.’ Unthinkingly she pulled out the plug.

Simon walked into the bathroom, yawning, hair ruffled, to find Harriet sitting in an empty bath, dreamily gazing into space.

‘I thought I told you to leave the fucking water in.’

Harriet flushed unbecomingly.

‘Oh God, I’m frightfully sorry. Perhaps there’s some hot left.’