Car felt as if he had been struck again.
“For me? I suppose you’re mad.”
She shook her head.
He thought if she shook her head again, that he would probably throw something at her. He drove both hands deep into his pockets and glowered.
“Will you kindly explain-all right then, I’m going.”
Fay sprang forward.
“Don’t go, Car! I did it for you-I really did! I don’t care twopence for Peter! He asked me to go out with him, and I went, because sometimes you were there too. It was the only way I could get to see you. And when the smash came and Peter went to the States, I thought I should never see you any more.” The words came tumbling out half choked with sobs.
“That’s enough,” said Car. “Don’t talk like that!”
He reached for the door handle, but she caught his arm with both hands.
“Car-listen! Don’t be angry. It was for you. I thought I’d never see you again, and I was desperate. And I knew you’d look after me if you thought I was Peter’s wife, so I said I was.”
“Yes,” said Car-“beautifully simple! I see. Let me go, Fay.”
“Car!”
“You’d better let me go. I might”-he took a deep breath-“I might-hurt you.” Then with a sudden jerk he had the door open, pulled free of her, and was gone.
She heard the front door slam so violently that the house shook. She put her hand on her own door and pushed it to. She was sobbing as she whirled round and ran to the hearth.
Peter’s photograph looked down at her. She snatched it and flung it across the room. It struck the window-sill and fell with a tinkle of broken glass.
Fay began to laugh.
XXV
Car Fairfax ’s Diary:
September 23rd-I think Fay’s mad. She’s simply been lying all this time. She’s no more married to Peter than Mrs. Bell is. She must be off her head, because it’s the most absolutely pointless show. They weren’t engaged-he didn’t even make love to her-they just went about together a bit. And when he’d gone, I suppose she thought she was going to be at a bit of a loose end, so she said they were married.
She said she thought I’d look after her if she was Peter’s wife. It’s absolute lunacy.
Corinna and I went to see her. She gave the whole show away at once. After Corinna had gone, I lost my temper and came away too.
I’ve been looking through Peter’s letters. He says things like, “You and Fay seem to be seeing quite a lot of each other,” and, “Fay says you’re looking after her.” I can see now that he must have thought I was getting keen on Fay myself. Of course he’d think that, when I kept writing about how she looked and what she was doing. It makes me boil to think of the rot I’ve written to poor old Peter just because I thought he must be dying to know everything I could tell him about Fay. I used to think how grateful I should feel if any one would write to me and tell me all the little everyday things about Isobel, and then I used to fire away. Poor old Peter must have been bored stiff.
Well, I slammed out of Fay’s room and out of the house, and went for a walk to get myself in hand. I’ve got a beastly temper.
On the way home I began to think about Fay. I’d been a bit brusque with her, and it worried me in case she got worked up to the point of doing something silly. She must be a bit mad, and it’s no good going off the deep end because a crazy person does a crazy thing. I wasn’t a bit keen on seeing her again, but I thought I’d better just blow in and make sure she was all right. After all, I’ve been looking after her for three years, so it’s got to be more or less of a habit.
I knocked at the door, and nothing happened. It was getting darkish, because I’d been a good long way. I could hear Mrs. Bell striking a match to light the hall gas, but I couldn’t hear anything from Fay’s room. I got the most awful panic and fairly banged on the panel. And then I felt like a fool, because the door opened, and there was Fay, got up to the nines and all ready to go out. She’d drenched herself with scent, and she’d made up her face till she looked like one of those dummy figures they put clothes on in shop windows.
“Were you coming to see if I was dead?” she said.
I said, “Don’t be an ass, Fay!” and she laughed.
“Have you come to console me for being divorced from Peter? Have you, Car?”
“I wish you’d talk sense, Fay,” I said.
Well, that just seemed to set her off. You wouldn’t have thought any one could talk such rot, even if they were balmy. I felt as if my temper might go again, so I thought it would give it a safety-valve if I put it across her a bit about the harm she might have done Peter, and the mischief she might have made by pretending to be married to him like that.
She jerked and flounced, and lit cigarettes and threw them about, like she does when she’s annoyed. She kept trying to speak too, but I was determined to let her have it, so I just went on. When I stopped, she asked me if Corinna was going to marry Peter. It’s extraordinary how women’s minds work. I said I didn’t know, but I hoped so.
“I don’t mind if she marries Peter,” she said. She edged up to me.
One of the things that has always annoyed me about Fay is the way she tries to flirt. It drives me wild. She does it because she thinks she can get round me that way. It’s a most extraordinary thing that most women seem to think that they can get their own way by wriggling their shoulders and doing tricks with their eyelashes. I suppose it gets round some people. It makes me angry. Fay’s most awfully bad about it.
“I shouldn’t like her to marry you. Are you in love with her, Car?”
I said, “No, I’m not,” and I scowled.
Fay did tricks with her eyelashes.
“No-it’s Isobel you’re in love with-isn’t it? She’s engaged to some one else. She’s going to marry Giles Heron. He’s awfully good-looking-much better looking than you, and much better off. She’ll marry him, and what will you do then? Car, don’t look like that. Oh-ooh-you frighten me! I only wanted to know. I don’t believe you’re in love with any one really. Are you? Are you in love with Isobel?”
“Yes, I am,” I said, and I went out of the room, because, honestly, I felt as if I should murder her if I stayed there another second.
That’s enough about that.
I wrote yesterday to Z.10 Smith to say I couldn’t go on like this. Another fifty pounds dropped in by registered post this morning. I can’t possibly take about a hundred pounds a week for doing nothing. I said if he’d really got a job for me to do, I’d like to know what it was and get down to it. I’ve thought till my head goes round, and I can’t arrive at any possible reason why any one should throw money at me like this-which looks as if it might be a lunatic, because if you’re mad, you are liable to do things without having any reason for doing them.
XXVI
September 24th-I was just writing about lunatics, when Mrs. Bell came up with a telegram. She disapproves most frightfully of telegrams.
“I don’t know what things is coming to,” she said. “Posts come in regular, and you do know where you are with them, but telegrafts I can’t abide nor see any use in, because if it’s bad news, you’re bound to get it sooner or later, and the later the better.”
“But supposing it’s good news?” I said. I wasn’t in a hurry, because Z.10’s the only person who wires to me now-a-days, and I’ve got past having heartthrobs over being told to ring him up at some unearthly place, or to be sure to send him back his last envelope, or something of that sort.
Mrs. Bell snorted.
“Nobody worries about sending you a telegraft when it’s good news,” she said. “If it’s anything that’s going to worry a pore soul into her grave, nobody don’t grudge a shilling to send the bad news along. But if some one was to leave me a fortune, or something of that sort, it’s my opinion the first I’d hear of it ’ud be on a post-card-and they wouldn’t hurry themselves too much about that. And did you say there was any answer, sir? And I hope as it isn’t bad news for you this time anyhow.”