Everyone said, ‘I told you so.’ Geoffrey was magnanimous, then irritated that she wouldn’t snap out of it, then furious that Simon had succeeded where he had failed, and made violent attempts to get her into bed. Her girlfriends, who had all been jealous of her and Simon, were secretly pleased it was over. Theo Dutton was vitriolic about the badness of her essay.
The child looked in terrible shape. She was obviously having some kind of crisis.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Who is it?’
‘No-one, nothing,’ she muttered. ‘Simon Villiers.’
‘Oh dear, oh dear. He was the nasty bug all my girl students caught last summer. I thought he’d gone out of fashion now. I must say I’m disappointed in you, Harriet. I thought you had better taste. He was one of the worst students I’ve ever had; his mind is earth-shatteringly banal.’
Then, like Mrs Glass, he saw the stricken look on her face and realized he was on the wrong tack.
For days she didn’t eat, wandering round Oxford getting thinner and thinner, gazing for hours at the river, wondering whether to jump, hanging around Simon’s digs at a respectable distance hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Mostly she saw him come out and sit in his car, impatiently drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, revving up the car, lighting cigarette after cigarette. Then Borzoi would come spilling out, spraying on scent, trailing coloured scarves, her gorgeous streaky gold hair tumbling over her face. And they would drive off arguing furiously.
Chapter Seven
It was only after a month that Harriet started to worry — but it was a worry that was nothing compared with losing Simon. Another week slipped by, then one evening she washed her hair and put on a black dress of Susie’s that she’d never been able to get into before, but which now hung off her, and went to see Simon. She waited in the cold till Borzoi had gone out, almost biting her lip through as she watched Simon kiss her in the doorway. Then Borzoi drove off with a roar, and Simon went back into the house. He took a long time to answer the doorbell. For a minute she gazed at him close up; he was after all only a face. How could he have caused her so much unhappiness? Then suddenly all the old longing came flooding back.
‘Hullo,’ he said, hardly seeming to recognize her. ‘Oh it’s you,’ he added politely. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Can I come in?’
He looked at his watch. ‘I’m going out in a second.’
‘I don’t want to hassle you, but it’s important.’
‘Oh dear,’ he sighed. ‘Well, you’d better come in.’
The room was in chaos. There were ashtrays full of stubs everywhere and finger-smeared tumblers, and cups full of old wet coffee grounds. Clothes, everything from fur coats to party dresses, lay piled high on every chair.
‘Tidiness has never been Borzoi’s strong point,’ said Simon, picking some dead flowers out of their vase and throwing them dripping into the ashes of the fireplace. ‘Thank God the char’s coming in the morning.’
He put a cigarette in his mouth — not offering her one.
‘Well,’ he said, noticing her red-rimmed eyes. ‘How are things? You’ve lost a lot of weight. Been dieting?’
Harriet took a deep breath. ‘Simon, I’m pregnant.’
The match flared. Simon breathed in deeply. The end of the cigarette glowed. He threw the match into the fire.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I had the results of the test yesterday.’
‘But you were on the pill.’
‘I know; but I’d only just started taking it, and the night we first w-went to bed together, I was in such a state beforehand I think I may have forgotten to take it.’
‘Bloody little fool,’ said Simon, but not unkindly. ‘Are you sure it’s mine?’
She looked up horrified, her eyes full of tears.
‘Oh yes, there’s never been anyone else.’
‘What about Jeremy or Gordon, or whatever he was called.’
‘Geoffrey? Oh no, I couldn’t. I didn’t. .’
She started to cry.
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Simon. She was aware only of the terrible boredom in his voice. She might have been some mild inconvenience, a button off his shirt, a pair of dark glasses left in a taxi.
He went into the kitchen and put the kettle on.
‘Well, you’d better go to London as soon as possible, and see Dr Wallace.’
‘What for?’
‘To get rid of it of course.’
‘B-but I couldn’t.’
‘It’s not dangerous any more, darling. You don’t want to listen to any of those old wives’ tales. Dr Wallace is a pro. They just suck it out with a Hoover these days.’
Harriet winced.
‘Borzoi’s been to him twice,’ said Simon. ‘So have Chloe and Deirdre and Anne-Marie and Henrietta. Honestly, he ought to give me a discount the number of birds I’ve sent to him.’
‘But I don’t want. .’ Harriet began.
‘You might feel a bit depressed afterwards, but it’s the end of term next week, so you can go home and recuperate.’
‘But it’ll be so expensive. I don’t want to rip you off.’
‘Oh don’t worry about that, darling; I’ll treat you. I’m not that much of a sod. Do you mind Nescafé? Borzoi insists on making real coffee, but it’s so disgusting, and I can never get the coffee grounds out of my teeth.’
He poured boiling water into two cups and handed one to her.
‘If you like,’ he went on, putting two saccharine into his cup, ‘I’ll ring old Wallace now, and fix you up an appointment. The old bags on the switchboard give people they don’t know rather a hard time.’
The scalding coffee burnt her throat but seemed to give her strength.
‘Would you mind terribly if I kept it?’
‘Oh be realistic, angel. You of all people are simply not cut out to be a one-parent family. I know people keep their babies, but they have a bloody awful time, unless they’re rich enough to afford a lover and a nanny.’
Harriet sat in Dr Wallace’s waiting-room feeling sick, thumbing feverishly through the same magazine, watching girls go in and out. Some looked pale and terrified like herself, others obviously old timers, chatted together and might have been waiting for an appointment at the hairdresser’s. Two models embraced in the doorway.
‘Fanny darling!’
‘Maggie!’
‘Friday morning — see if you can get booked in at the same time, and we can go in together.’
Dr Wallace was smooth, very suntanned from skiing and showed a lot of white cuff.
‘You’re certain you don’t want to get married and have the child, Miss Poole? This is a big step you’re taking.’
‘He doesn’t want to marry me,’ whispered Harriet, unable to meet the doctor’s eyes. ‘But he’s perfectly happy to pay. I’ve got a letter from him here.’
Dr Wallace smiled as he looked at Simon’s royal blue writing paper.
‘Oh dear! Mr Villiers again; quite a lad, isn’t he? One of our best customers.’
Harriet went white. ‘Fond of him, were you? Shame, shame, boy’s got a lot of charm, but not ideal husband material, I wouldn’t say. You’re very young, plenty more fish in the sea. Not much fun bringing up a baby on your own, pity to ruin a promising academic career.’
‘I know,’ said Harriet listlessly.
‘Just got to get another doctor to sign the form. Will first thing Friday morning be all right for you? You’ll be out in the evening. There, there; don’t cry, it’ll be soon over.’