Once Is Not Enough (55 page)

“For God’s sake,” Dee said testily. “It’s not as if he found them in bed together!”

Anthony Pierson nodded. “Quite right. But that one picture
. . . with the girl’s arms around Karla’s neck . . . and the other where they are kissing . . . and look here . . . walking with their arms entwined. No, they’ve not been caught in bed . . . but it would make for jolly good speculation in one of those scandal magazines.”

Dee stared at the pictures. Her head was beginning to throb. How could she compete with anyone as young and lovely as this girl?

“She’s very beautiful,” Dee said slowly.

“Quite fabulous, isn’t she? Whyte learned that the Harringtons are not her parents. They obviously work for her. Because the girl’s name is Zinaida Jones. The house is rented; it’s a lovely house. Not too large, but secluded—nice piece of land and all that. Karla has been there every day. On three occasions she stayed overnight.”

Dee’s hand shook as she fumbled for a cigarette. She stared at the girl. The picture was fuzzy from enlargement. She inhaled her cigarette deeply. “Have you got any aspirins, Tony? I’m afraid I’ve a bit of jet lag.”

“Of course.” He went to a chest in the bathroom. When he came out, Dee was still studying the pictures.

“It does look rather peculiar, doesn’t it?” he said. “Looks like the great Karla has found herself a bit of new young love life. But then . . . there’s always been that rumor about the lady, hasn’t there?”

“I’ve heard it,” Dee said. “But I know Karla. She’s been to my home, and I never saw anything that would give it any credence.”

“Except these pictures, I’d say,” Anthony Pierson said. “Pretty damning. Why can’t these people confine their amorous inclinations to the bedroom? Why would she walk around the grounds with her arms around that girl?”

“Perhaps because she didn’t know Mr. Donald Whyte was sitting up in a tree with a telescopic camera. You say it is a secluded place?”

“Has about an acre of its own ground. But my dear Mrs. Wayne, how can any of this affect your stepdaughter?”

Dee shook her head. “Well . . . perhaps . . . perhaps she knows this Zinaida.”

“Oh.” For a moment Anthony Pierson colored slightly. “Well
. . . oh . . . I see. All the calls . . . you are thinking that perhaps your stepdaughter was, ah . . . friendly with this Zinaida Jones?”

Dee shrugged. “Why not? She went to school in Switzerland. She was raised in girls’ schools.” She stood up. “Do you have the exact address of the house?”

“Yes. Right here. It’s about an hour’s drive from town.”

“Thank you. And will you take care of Mr. Whyte’s services and send the entire bill to me? Send it around tomorrow to the Grosvenor. For obvious reasons, I wouldn’t want this to go to New York.”

She tried to think of a plan of action as she drove to the country. The chauffeur knew the way, and now they were out of London, coming into lush green scenery, approaching Ascot. . . . But then what? She couldn’t just ring the bell and say to this Zinaida Jones: “Look . . . she’s mine!” Perhaps if she got off outside of the house and tried to catch sight of them. The whole thing was so distasteful that she shrank back in the seat. But she was determined to go through with it. All the years of devotion she had given Karla . . . all the “gifts.” Had Karla used that last ten-thousand-dollar check to dash off to be with her young new love? For the first time she knew how a man felt to be cuckolded. Cuckolded! Now how did she ever come up with an expression like that? But that’s exactly how she felt. Cuckolded! It was a great word. She couldn’t say she was being cheated on . . . no doubt Karla had done that off and on all the time. She had never really asked her, just as Karla never asked about her sex life with Mike. She had tried to tell Karla about it once . . . how she really just put up with Mike . . . how relieved she was when the sex part was over . . . because that meant he wouldn’t bother her for at least two or three days. She thought about it now. Funny . . . in the last few months, weeks had gone by without Mike coming near her. She hadn’t even noticed. The thought disturbed her. Not that she wanted him to touch her . . . but was she that unattractive? She knew there was a certain softness to her body . . . her thighs . . . her stomach. She was aware of it when she was lying close to Karla, because Karla didn’t have an ounce
of spare flesh. But she hadn’t minded her own soft body . . . somehow it had made her feel more feminine with Karla. But why had Mike stayed away? Was it too much golf? He was always gambling lately. She wondered how much he had won.

But that wasn’t her concern. Right now her concern was Karla . . . and the new girl. But maybe she wasn’t a new girl. Maybe they had been together for some time. Maybe Karla was going through a “young” period. There had been David for a time . . . now this girl. . . .

The driver pulled up along a huge row of hedges. “This is the house, madam. The entrance is down the road a bit. But you said you wanted to stop here.”

“Yes. I want to surprise some old friends. If the car comes in the driveway, well . . . there wouldn’t be any surprise, would there?”

“No, madam.”

She wondered if he believed her. The English could be so damned expressionless when they wanted to be. He probably thought she was surprising a lover. Well, she was!

The small iron gate had no lock. She opened it and walked up the driveway. It was beginning to rain. She was wearing a raincoat and she put her scarf over her head. It was a very modest driveway; but the grounds were well tended. The house was Tudor in style. There was a small English car parked out front.

Dee approached slowly. She wondered if this Zinaida owned a dog. It would be horrible if some English mastiff lunged at her throat. She could see the headline: DEE MILFORD GRANGER ATTACKED BY DOG FOR TRESPASSING. God, how would she ever explain that? There were lights inside the house. Zinaida was probably home . . . or was she off walking the countryside with her arm around Karla’s waist like in the pictures? Karla liked to walk in any kind of weather. And she could just bet that Zinaida pretended to adore it too.

She tiptoed over to the window. It was a cozy living room, nothing pretentious; and no one was there. Perhaps if she went around to the back . . . Karla always loved kitchens . . .

“Why don’t you come in . . . it’s very wet outside.”

She gasped when she heard the voice. She turned . . . Karla
was standing behind her. The rain was on her face and she was wearing a bandana and a trenchcoat.

“Karla . . . I . . .”

“Let’s go inside. It is damp and cold.”

Karla opened the door. Dee noticed she had a key. She wanted to run. This was the end. . . . She never should have come. Karla’s face was a mask. She was obviously cold with anger and she would probably tell her that everything was over between them. Oh God, why had she done this? She had once seen a play where the mistress had done her best to have the wife find out . . . because once the wife confronted her husband with the evidence, there was nothing for him to do but admit it. And if Karla admitted it, Dee would have to walk away. Even though she would die inside . . . she’d have to walk away with pride. Because without pride . . . there could be no relationship. Yet at the same time she longed to fall on her knees and tell Karla to forget she was there . . . to forget this whole horrible incident.

Karla hung up her coat on a rack near the door. She was wearing gabardine slacks and a man’s shirt. Her hair was long and straight. She looked weary but as beautiful as ever.

Dee stood very still. Karla turned and pointed to the rack. “Take off your coat. It is wet.”

Dee took it off and knew that her hair was squashed down by the scarf. She probably never looked worse. And somewhere in this house—waiting for Karla—was this gorgeous young creature.

“Sit down,” Karla said. “I will get some brandy.” She disappeared into another room.

Dee looked around. There was a picture of Karla in a large frame. Then there was a picture of a German shepherd dog, obviously long deceased, because the girl with it was a child. Probably one of Zinaida’s childhood pets. Where was she? Probably upstairs, respecting Karla’s desire for privacy like everyone else, giving in to Karla’s moods.

Karla returned with a bottle of brandy and poured two glasses. Dee watched with surprise the way Karla tossed down the drink in one gulp. Then she sat down. “All right, Dee. . . . I’m not going to ask how you found me. I’ll save you that embarrassment.”

Tears came to Dee’s eyes. She got up and walked toward the charred fireplace. “I’d give ten years of my life if I could take back this afternoon.”

“Do I mean that much to you?” Karla’s voice was almost gentle.

Dee turned toward her, forcing back her tears. “Do you mean that much to me? Oh, God . . .” She walked across the room and went to her bag for a cigarette. She lit it and turned to Karla. “No . . . you don’t mean very much. Just enough to make me sick every time you take off . . . enough to make me become a devious liar and a sneak with my husband . . . sending him off to Cannes alone while I . . . I . . . called a friend . . . and learned of your whereabouts . . . and found out about Zinaida. And I must be some kind of masochist. Instead of just putting you out of my life, I come out here . . . wanting to see her for myself . . . wanting—Oh, God knows what. Why should I torture myself like this? I know she’s years younger than I . . . and very beautiful . . . and I wish to God I hadn’t come . . . because if I hadn’t . . . we’d still be together.”

“Where did you see her?” Karla asked.

Dee opened her bag and dropped the pictures in Karla’s lap.

Karla studied them. She looked at Dee in amazement. “This is the work of a paparazzi.”

Dee shook her head helplessly. “No . . . it’s an Englishman named Donald Whyte. Don’t worry . . . I have the negatives. Look, Karla . . . I have my car outside . . . I’d better go.” She started for the door. She reached for her raincoat and turned to Karla. “Just tell me one thing . . . how long has this affair been going on?”

Karla looked down at the pictures . . . then at Dee. Then with a sad smile she shook her head. “Yes . . . I see . . . the pictures . . . What else do you know?”

“I know that you’ve been spending several nights here.”

“Ah, your man is thorough. But not thorough enough . . . right?”

“Do you enjoy this game?” Dee snatched her coat from the wooden rack.

“No . . . I am suffering inside more than you would believe. But since you have come such a long way . . . and gone to
so much trouble . . . I think that before you leave, you should meet Zinaida.”

“No.” Dee struggled to get into her coat. With a sudden movement, Karla sprang to the center of the room and pushed her into a chair.

“You have snooped . . . and you now wish to walk away. Well, a snoop deserves to see the finish. Perhaps it will teach you some kind of lesson in the future.” Karla walked to the staircase and shouted, “Mrs. Harrington.”

A small gray-haired lady peered over the balustrade. “Tell Zinaida to tear herself away from the TV set and come downstairs. I want her to meet a friend of mine.”

Karla poured herself another glass of brandy. She pointed to Dee’s untouched glass. “Drink yours. You’ll need it.”

Dee kept her eyes fastened on the stairs. Then she saw the girl. She was more beautiful than the photographs. She was tall, almost as tall as Karla. Her hair was blonde and it fell to her shoulders. She looked much younger than her pictures. Dee guessed her to be about January’s age.

Karla’s smile was gentle. “Come in, Zinaida. We have a guest. This is Mrs. Wayne.”

The girl smiled at Dee. Then she turned to Karla. “Could I have some chocolate cake? Mrs. Harrington just made it this afternoon and she said I can’t have it until dinner.”

“We do what Mrs. Harrington says,” Karla said slowly, “Perhaps she wanted the cake to be a surprise.”

“But now you know about it, so it’s no surprise. So can I have it? Just one piece? Please? I’m so dreadfully sick of those oatmeal cookies she always makes.”

“Go back to your telly,” Karla said.

The girl sighed in disgust. Then she pointed at Dee. “Is she staying for dinner?”

“Shall we ask her?”

Zinaida smiled. “Sure, as long as you tell me the Red Shoes story before I go to bed.” She ran out of the room.

For a moment Dee stared after her. Then she looked at Karla. “She’s very beautiful . . . but what was all that? Some kind of a private joke? I thought she acted like a twelve-year-old.”

“Actually, she’s ten.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Her mentality. It is that of a ten-year-old.”

“And she’s your great love?”

“She’s my daughter.”

For a moment, Dee couldn’t speak. “Drink your brandy,” Karla said. This time Dee swallowed it in one gulp. Then Karla poured them each another. “Take off your coat and stay for dinner. That is, if you like chocolate cake.”

“Karla, when did you have this child?”

“Thirty-one years ago.”

“But . . . she looks so young.”

Karla shrugged. “They always look young. Perhaps because they do not have grown-up worries.”

“Do you . . . want to tell me about it?”

“After dinner. But first—I suggest you dismiss your car. I will drive you back into town.”

It had been an easy dinner. Dee was so relieved at the change of events that she was filled with affection for the beautiful child-woman who tore into the food and chattered incessantly throughout the meal. Mr. and Mrs. Harrington were obviously the couple who took care of Zinaida. Dee noticed Zinaida addressed Karla as “Godmother.” When dinner was finished she jumped up and said, “And now Godmother is going to tell me ‘Red Shoes.’”

Dee sat spellbound as Karla half talked, half danced, and half acted out the story. She had never seen Karla give this much of herself. But her warmth toward Zinaida was fluid and easy. At nine o’clock, Mrs. Harrington appeared. “Come, Zinaida . . . Godmother has company, and it is time for a bath and bed.”

“Will you come up later and hear my prayers?”

“Of course,” Karla said as she kissed the girl.