Джеймс Хилтон - Morning Journey

After that, of course, everyone felt free to comment on the affair as outspokenly as they liked before her, and many did. She let them know how little she cared, how little it all mattered, how happy she was to be at a party where nobody would make serious speeches at all, not even silly ones. She felt waves of sympathy reaching towards her, but also waves of awareness that she was hamming it up, for she could hardly conceal that from professionals. It was the quality of the act that she hoped they would recognize. She talked a lot and was perhaps a little too gay at times. She had even a feeling once or twice that the whole idea of coming to the party had been mistaken, but she rallied herself quickly and switched to another group whose different reaction might reconvince her. In a party of such size and at such a stage of festivity there was always a bewildering series of cross-currents—envies and enmities open or hidden, masquerading sometimes in ways that drink, towards the end of a long evening, would reveal; it was this sort of thing that often led at Fulton-Griffin parties to the beginnings of scenes that were usually squelched before they made headlines owing to the Fulton-Griffin tactic of planting several reliable house servants to play guests among the guests. Thus there could develop a faintly sinister atmosphere. The strong-jawed man sipping bourbon at the edge of the pool might be getting ready either to push you in or fish you out.

Carey felt exultant as she worked her way through the crowd. For one thing the rooms were cool, air-conditioned, with the windows wide open, an absurdity that yet contrived an enchantment, for pockets of blossom-scented air drifting in from the gardens were deliriously warm. An evening out of a travel folder, with starlit sky and flood-lit lawns to aid the illusion (as Paul had said after his one experience of a Fulton-Griffin party) that the cream of civilization had coagulated here and would make excellent cheese. Half the guests were already a little drunk. The buffet tables were still laden with food that (like the drink) was not quite excellent. On a platform beyond the swimming-pool a seven-piece orchestra played medleys. Some people were dancing.

Suddenly Carey saw Mr. Hare in a corner of the drawing-room all on his own. “Hello, Mr. Hare,” she said, smiling.

“Well, Miss Arundel, this IS a surprise. You changed your mind?”

“I often do.”

“So we CAN finish our talk. That’s good.”

“Yes, but let’s go outside. The gardens are lovely.”

They stepped through the French windows to the terrace, avoiding the crowd at the swimming-pool end and discovering a side path that led to a grove of eucalyptus trees.

“I felt I had to come,” she said, “just to show I don’t feel all the things people are thinking I feel.”

“You’re very wise.” He took her arm and she knew the entire friendliness of the man; she liked, too, the way he went straight to what must be in both their minds. “What Saffron did say,” he said, “as opposed to all the talk of what he said, wasn’t really against YOU. Therefore there’s nothing for you to be hurt or humiliated about.”

“I’m so glad you think that.”

“Just stupid of him and in bad taste.”

“Oh yes, oh yes, I know it was.”

“Rather odd—coming just after you’d told me his speeches sometimes made you feel nervous.”

Had she said that? Oh yes, during the dinner. “Yes, wasn’t it odd?” Because it really was.

“You must have had a lot of experience of him.”

“Well, we were married, once.”

And it was odd, too, that he hadn’t known that, because it obviously gave him a shock. “You WERE?”

“Didn’t you know?”

“I didn’t, and as everybody else here must, it’s rather astonishing nobody happened to mention it to me. I suppose they assumed I knew.”

“So you’ve been talking about me to people?”

“A few people have been talking about you to me.”

“What do they say?”

“They like you—and they don’t like him.”

Well, that had always been so—almost always. She felt an overwhelming sadness as she answered: “They don’t have to couple us together any more.”

“Except that you were in the picture together.”

“Yes—for a special reason, but that’s a long story—I might tell you some time if you’re interested.”

Some men and girls were approaching.

“Maybe tomorrow? Don’t forget you have a date at my office. Make it eleven-thirty and I’ll take you to lunch.”

“Fine.” She would like that. But her thoughts were on Paul, now that he had been spoken of by both of them. She wondered where he was, what he was doing. She said, as they walked back towards the house: “He didn’t show up here tonight, did he?”

“No. I’m sure I’d have known if he had. Did you think he might?”

“He’s capable of it. If he’d been here I’d have wanted to leave—I couldn’t stand any more.” And that was true enough.

“I don’t blame you.”

“I’m just about at the limit of what I can stand, to be frank.”

“You probably need that holiday in Ireland you talked about. But why Ireland?”

“I was born there. Where were you born?”

“Vermont… on a farm.”

“So was I. In County Kildare. The greenest fields, and my father rode the wildest and most beautiful horses…” The vision filled her—oh, the lovely country, the white clouds rolling shadows over the fields, the green-blue mountains in the distance. Her eyes could always fill when she thought of it, but now she was embarrassed because she knew Mr. Hare was watching her. She added: “Oh, I guess we all feel like that about where we were born. Vermont is beautiful too.”

“Yes, very.” And then, telling her there was just time for one more question, he went on to say something that both amazed and puzzled her. He seemed to think it might, for he cautioned her in advance. “A rather personal question, so don’t be startled… Did Saffron ever—in a dressing-room at the studio while the picture was being made—did he ever quarrel with you and threaten you with a gun?”

She had to laugh. “Good heavens, no. Who on earth made that one up?”

They separated inside the house and she guessed that he left soon afterwards, before she did. She stayed till nearly one, talking and dancing with a few of the sober survivals, but when she was in her car driving downhill towards her apartment the beginnings of panic seized her. Would there have been more messages, newspaper enquiries? The desk man said: “Did you know you left your phone off the hook, Miss Arundel?”

She said: “Oh, did I? Have there been calls?”

“Quite a number…” He was going to hand her the slips but she said: “I can’t do anything about them tonight—send them up tomorrow.”

She had hoped the apartment would seem cheerful to relax in after the long strain of the evening; it was really an elegant apartment, and if only it had been higher, as in New York, she felt it might have worked a miracle on her mood; she loved height, the look of streets spread out below, a corner window like the prow of a ship in air. She switched on all the lights and lit a cigarette. She did not know whether she could sleep or even whether she wanted to. In a way the evening had been her triumph—she had rallied friends and admirers in droves. Yet was there anyone, anywhere, now, at one in the morning, who would greet her warmly yet incuriously, welcomingly yet without drama, if she telephoned or rang a door-bell? Greg?… Austen?… Norris?… Even Paul?… It seemed to her that most of those she had talked to so excitingly throughout the evening were by now either drunk or climbing into some little bed, like Mr. Hare… Then suddenly she thought of Professor Lingard. How incredible that anyone should fill so exactly her precise requirements—Professor Lingard, who had given her a cordial invitation to look through his observatory telescope in the middle of some night! But he had warned her to telephone first, to find if the skies were clear enough. So she telephoned, and soon heard his voice, amiable and distant-sounding: “Why, yes, Miss Arundel… of course I remember… yes, wonderful… no, I’m working as usual… TONIGHT?… Why, certainly, you couldn’t have chosen a better one… As soon as you like, then… An hour and a half, I should think—there’ll be very little traffic… you know the way… but take it easy now, especially the last stretch…”