As the door to the bathroom closed, what there was of Trixie’s courage vanished. Legs trembling, she got up and stumbled over to the dressing table. In the mirror she saw that her cheeks were wet. She hadn’t realised she was crying. How was that possible? To weep and not to know. She released a moan of self-pity, immediately silenced although there was no way it could be overheard.
She listened to him soaping and splashing. There were some tissues in a velvet-covered box. She took some and scrubbed at her face. She had far too much make-up on. The result of a frantic re-embellishment before running downstairs. Flinching at the recollection, Trixie attempted to moderate the damage that tears and perspiration had wrought. It wasn’t easy especially as she was without her handbag and consequently - it struck her for the first time - without money.
How was she to get home? The thought of approaching the chauffeur, first having to ask at the desk for his whereabouts, brought the shakes on again. In any case he wouldn’t take her anywhere without Gamelin’s say-so. Trixie recalled her previous intuition - that the man had been laughing at her. He probably thought she was some sort of prostitute. Perhaps they all did! Trixie turned from her reflection, overcome by shame.
She could still hear water but two minutes had already gone by. What would he do if he came back and found her there? Physically chuck her out that’s what. He couldn’t give a monkey’s about causing a scene. Money meant never having to say you’re sorry.
She stared at the fifty-pound note lying on sheets still pungent with the reek of loveless copulation and was disgusted to find herself briefly, treacherously, inclined to take it. Not for the sex but as compensation for bruised breasts, painful back and tender aching limbs. Compulsively, perhaps needing to protect herself from this dishonourable rationale, she seized the note and tore it in half. Then into four and finally into as many tiny pieces as she could manage. About to toss these scornfully into the air she noticed a wallet protruding from his jacket pocket. She pulled it out and began stuffing the bits inside. This childish occupation ignited a brief flicker of satisfaction. She pictured him, perhaps in some smart restaurant, searching for his credit card and releasing a cloud of fiscal confetti.
Replacing the wallet, Trixie felt something small and lump-like. She drew it out. A bottle, very thick brown glass. She unscrewed the foil-lined cap. Even without the label she would have recognised the contents. Glyceryl Trinitrate. Her father had carried just such tablets to keep the shadow of death at bay. He would never have left them in another room while taking a shower. Trixie tipped the tablets into her hand, replaced the top and returned the bottle to its original place. The water stopped running.
She stood staring at the white painted door. Behind it a clatter, then a sharp rap. A coathanger bouncing against the wood. He was putting on a robe. He was going to come out and find her. Not gone in five minutes but standing there with his life-support system, a little ball of sweaty white gravel, in her hand. Then a loud buzz. A shaver. Reprieved, Trixie felt a quick rush of energy and simultaneously a terrible apprehension of the seriousness of what she had done. It could even be criminal. She must put them back. Indeed their very removal now seemed to her an act of absolute madness.
But she had only taken a single step when the room was filled with the loud shrilling of the telephone. Guy switched off his razor. And Trixie fled away.
In the beechwoods which bordered the fields at the rear of the house, Janet paced furiously back and forth, kicking at leaf mould, stamping on fallen twigs. The dark interior with its sombre canopy of light-excluding branches suited her mood entirely. Tears splashed on to her lace-up walking shoes and her breathing was harsh and jerky. Occasionally she gave vent to a peculiar hacking sound. Something between a cough and a groan.
How Trixie had hurried, agonised Janet. God - how she’d raced about! Rubbing on lipstick, squirting clouds of scent everywhere - even down her panties. Winking at Janet. Singing: ‘Monee makes the world go round ... the world go round ... the world ...’ Swaying off with her seraglio walk.
It had been horrible. Pitiable and degrading; like watching the poor scrabble for bread. Janet recognised the exaggeration but the principle was the same. I could have given her money. She’s welcome to all I have. Janet scrubbed at her cheeks with a wisp of stolen lace.
He’d looked such a thug. She stopped in her tracks at the recollection and sat down on a fallen log. Built to do damage, Trixie had said. What sort of damage might he do? She was so vulnerable. Always trying to appear so ... what was the word ... streetwise? But really not much more than a child. Which was why Janet felt so protective.
That, of course, was all she felt. She was absolutely not in any way at all in love with Trixie. Never in a million years. Because that would make her some sort of ... well ... lesbian. And Janet would have been distressed and horrified had she been so described. Because she would never actually do anything. Could not imagine doing anything under any circumstances whatsoever. In fact was utterly revolted at the thought. Defensively, she regarded her more emotional friendships (and weren’t all true friendships emotional?) as being similar to the idolatrous pashes so germane to the plots of old-fashioned school stories for girls. Maisie Saves The Day. Sukie Pulls It Off. That sort of thing.
She had been picking absently at the rotting bark - it was soft like flakes of chocolate - struggling to regain some sort of equilibrium. Silly to get into a state. They’d probably just gone off somewhere for a drink. And he was only around for an hour or two. After dinner he’d be gone and that would be that. Surely?
Her scratching had disturbed some woodlice. Dozens fell to the ground and started scurrying about. One fell on its back and scurried with its legs in the air. Janet turned it over with her thumbnail then looked at her watch. Trixie had been gone for nearly an hour. She could be back at any minute. Might be already.
Springing up, Janet walked quickly to the edge of the wood and climbed the stile. She let herself into the grounds through the old door that opened into the orchard. As she did so, she was struck by a fierce urgent compulsion that something was wrong. That Trixie needed her. Was crying out for help or comfort. Janet began to run, stumbling across the lawn, tripping on tussocks of grass, using her arms like pistons - elbows tucked in - as if she were in a race.
As she burst through the gap in the yew hedge, a taxi drew up at the front door and Trixie got out. Calling her name, Janet ran across the gravel to lean, panting, on the bonnet of the car. Trixie appeared quite calm but was pale and clutching at her blouse in a rather odd way.
‘Sort out the cab for me would you, Jan?’ She hurried into the house calling over her shoulder: ‘Pay you back.’
Janet asked the man to wait while she found some money then, after he had driven away, she went upstairs and tapped several times very gently on Trixie’s door. But there was no reply. Eventually Janet gave up and went downstairs to help prepare the birthday dinner.
Chapter 6
Utterly transformed, Felicity sat quite still staring into her dressing-room mirror. She and Danton were enclosed inside a black faux marbre horseshoe supported by a cluster of grave-faced caryatids. The surface of this creation was invisible beneath a crust of glittering glass - jars, flasks, bottles - and metal - lipstick cases, aerosols, tins. The images in this small space, so grossly given over to a worship of the vanities, were multiplied a hundred times by the judicious arrangement of mirrored screens set at angles in the walls.