The Rich Are Different (50 page)

I knew I could not refuse. Panic pricked the nape of my neck as we left the restaurant.

This time neither Peterson nor the chauffeur was dismissed and we travelled downtown in silence, Paul and I sitting six inches apart on the back seat. I wanted to take his hand in mine, talk to him, cry, but I did nothing, said nothing and my eyes were tearless.

At the bank we left Peterson in the entrance hall with the nightwatchman and walked through the glittering main chamber to Paul’s office.

‘Brandy, my dear?’

‘Thanks. I wish I had the willpower to say no. I seem to have been drinking rather a lot lately.’

Evidently he had more willpower than I did, or perhaps he was merely afraid to drink more. Opening the bar concealed in the bookcase he filled one glass of brandy and put the bottle away.

I had to sit down. There was a large chair on the other side of the desk and I sank into it slowly as if I were falling in slow motion from a great height.

He sat down opposite me and we regarded each other, banker and client, across the desk which separated us.

Suddenly I said: ‘I love you, Paul,’ and burst into tears.

He reached to take my hand. When I could speak again I said unsteadily: ‘Paul, I don’t want to leave you, I really don’t.’

‘I don’t want you to go.’ He was stroking the back of my hand with his index finger. ‘Stay until the fall and then we can go back to Mallingham together.’

I began to cry again, and when he saw I could not answer he said with great kindness: ‘Very well, let’s get to the bottom of this. God knows, I’m a businessman and I should hope I can always recognize an ultimatum when it’s staring me in the face! You’ve declared your intention of returning to England. Very well, that puts the ball squarely in my court. I now have to make you an offer to induce you to stay.’

‘Oh no – no, it’s not like that—’

‘But of course it is – and of course I’ll make you an offer! I don’t want you to go any more than you do, and in fact it’s very important to me that you stay. Well, what would you like? Name your terms! I’m quite prepared to give you anything you want so I can’t imagine there’ll be any difficulty.’

‘Paul, what I
want, you can’t give me.’

I shall never know how I said those words. They were torn out of the most private reaches of my mind, and afterwards I felt in excruciating pain as if a limb had been hacked from my body.

‘Ah!’ he said at once with relief. ‘At last I’m beginning to understand! How slow I’ve been – and I always knew how much you wanted more children! Very well, if you think I’m a suitable candidate to help you with your dynastic schemes—’

He stopped.

I was mute.

Our private world came at last to an end.

For ten terrible seconds I saw him grow old before my eyes and then he rose awkwardly to his feet, fumbled to open the bar and slopped brandy into a tumbler.

I watched him drink it, watched him refill his glass. Finally he was able to say: ‘All right, let’s discuss this calmly. I do understand the difficulty but I’m sure there must be a solution. We have such a unique relationship. I can’t believe—’ He stopped. His calmness disintegrated. In a low voice he said rapidly: ‘I feel so well when I’m with you. You give me such confidence. Even now I don’t mind you knowing – I always wondered if I’d mind but now I can see it doesn’t make any difference, I just know I’ll stay well as long as you’re with me, I’m convinced of it. So you see you really mustn’t leave – if you leave I shall start slipping into that open grave again, and I can’t bear to think of it, can’t face it – it’s not death itself I mind but the gradual disintegration, the diminishing of my world by the steady loss of everything that’s important to me. I would have to abandon my work first, then my social activities, my friends … God, can’t you understand? It’s the
living
death that terrifies me – I dwell upon death a lot, often late at night when I can’t sleep and all I can think is: when it comes, let it be quick! Let it be absolute! And then I remember my father, dying young at the height of his powers, and I envy him …’ He stopped talking. The brandy glass was empty again. He was waiting for me to speak.

But I did not know how to reply. In the end, wanting to show sympathy I said falteringly: ‘You’re physically fit now, Paul. I think you exaggerate your dependence on me – your fears are all in your mind. Perhaps … perhaps a good psychiatrist—’

He got up and walked away into the other half of the double room. It was unlit, and when he sank down on the sofa I could not see his expression. Leaning forward he covered his face with his hands.

I was terrified. I knew I had made matters worse, and now I did not dare go to him for fear of what new distress I might uncover. I felt paralysed by guilt, and having been cruelly made aware of my inadequacy he made no further appeal to me for help.

At last he stood up, moving stiffly as he stepped back into the light. The weight of his pain brushed past me. I was nearly annihilated by it.

‘I’ll take you back to the Plaza,’ he said.

‘Paul, I must
say this – it’s not your illness itself – I mean, I’m not frightened of it or anything stupid like that – heavens, how could I be with my classical education? Epilepsy, the mark of the gods! Paul, what I’m trying to say is that my decision to leave isn’t primarily concerned with your illness.’

‘We’ll leave now. This way, please.’

‘You see, it was because you lied to me – never trusted me – I was manipulated and deceived—’

He swung to face me. We had left his office and were standing at the far end of the great hall. His eyes were black and bitter. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, it wasn’t you who sent for me, was it? It was
she
who sent for me, and when I found that out—’

‘Who told you?’

‘Elizabeth,’ I said faintly, and saw him bow his head in acceptance of some massive and terrible defeat.

I followed him to the car. I was trembling from head to toe and he was beyond speech. At the end of our silent journey I blurted out: ‘Will I see you again before I go?’

‘Of course,’ he said politely. ‘I hope I’m not so discourteous that I’m incapable of coming down to the ship tomorrow to wish you a safe voyage. Besides, I must say goodbye to Alan.’

I started to cry again as the car halted outside the hotel.

‘Good-night, Dinah,’ he said, and stared out of the window as I crawled from the car.

The next thing I knew I was upstairs in the suite and hunting for something to drink. For a time I was too occupied with my sobs to think or see clearly but eventually I did realize that the suite was dry. Mayers had still not restocked the bedroom cupboard.

‘Oh God!’ I wept, as distraught as any alcoholic, and wasted five minutes futilely cursing Prohibition. I thought of a speakeasy and quailed. I considered bribing a waiter and flinched. Finally I telephoned Grace Clayton.

It was Bruce who answered.

‘Oh Bruce, it’s Dinah!’

‘Yes?’ That was a cool reception. Amidst all my distress I remembered his growing eccentricity and rebelled against it.

‘Is Grace there?’ I said coldly.

‘No, she had to go up to Greenwich. Her mother’s not well.’

‘Oh.’ I felt desperate. ‘Bruce, could I come over and cadge a drink? I feel just like jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge.’

‘Well, frankly it’s not very convenient. I’m having a very important meeting of the C.M.S. – tomorrow’s our Wall Street parade. Can you go and get a drink somewhere else?’

I hung up on him in a fury, wasted some more time cursing his society Citizens for Militant Socialism, and dialled Terence O’Reilly’s number in Greenwich Village. I had seen nothing of Terence for some weeks. After I had conspicuously compromised my principles by sharing Paul with Sylvia he had no doubt decided I could be of no further use to him in his attempts
to detach Sylvia from her husband. As I waited for him to answer the telephone I wondered if he would be as rude to me as Bruce, but decided I was too distraught to care.

‘Terence? Oh, Terence, it’s Dinah Slade. Listen, I’m in desperate need of a good strong drink. I promise I won’t stay longer than five minutes, but—’

‘Come right on over,’ he said, ‘and I’ll fix you the biggest martini in town.’

I gasped with relief, grabbed my handbag and fled downtown to his flat.

[3]

‘Problems?’ said Terence, dropping a sliver of lemon into a glass the size of a goldfish bowl. He was casually dressed in a thin blue shirt and off-white slacks. It was hot in his neat apartment although a fan laboured valiantly by the window.

‘Unspeakable problems, yes.’ I collapsed on the sofa and guzzled the martini. ‘You’re looking very smug!’ I commented sourly as I paused for air. ‘In fact you remind me of a cat – it must be the green eyes. Where’s your bowl of cream?’

He laughed. I was aware of his excitement, as if he had a delicious secret and was savouring it ounce by ounce in some intensely private corner. ‘Go easy with that drink!’ he warned. ‘If you’re not careful you could well find yourself dead drunk in five minutes! What’s been going on?’

‘I can’t explain, it’s too complicated, but I ended up at the Plaza with nothing to drink and I phoned the Claytons but Grace was away and that
idiotic
Bruce was in the middle of a meeting—’

‘Ah yes, the C.M.S.! They’re due to parade up Wall Street tomorrow with the usual anti-capitalist jeers and sneers – the Van Zale clerks have been drawing lots for the best positions by the front windows! It’s not often we have that kind of excitement on the Street!’

‘Well, I used to like Bruce very much,’ I said, ‘but I think he’s gone absolutely mad and I feel jolly sorry for Grace. He’s not going to try and blow up Van Zale’s, is he? That would be the last straw!’

‘A repeat of the 1920 rumpus when some lunatic tried to blow up the House of Morgan? Not a chance! Bruce may be eccentric but he’s non-violent. He’s even forbidden his followers to carry guns. If you want my opinion the entire demonstration is going to be a complete waste of time, but – is anything the matter?’

‘Heavens, I think I’m going to be sick. Where’s the—’

‘This way.’ He steered me adroitly into the bathroom and abandoned me at the basin.

I tried to be sick but failed. I had had enough of the martini to feel like death but not enough to embark on the road to recovery. After five minutes I staggered out.

‘I’ll get you some medicine,’ said Terence when he saw my face. ‘Go into the bedroom and lie down.’

‘You won’t
jump on me?’

‘No, I like my women a little soberer than you are.’ I heard him opening the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. ‘Here,’ he said, offering me a glass of effervescing liquid, ‘drink this.’

‘Thanks. Goodness, I’m sorry – how awful of me – I do feel low. I never used to get blotto like this in London.’

‘It’s Prohibition,’ said Terence sympathetically. ‘People drink twice as much as they normally do when they have to make an effort to get the drink.’ He opened the bedroom door for me and I closed it firmly in case he had any idea of following me inside. There was an unmistakable sexual edge to his simmering excitement; I had the uneasy feeling that the smug cat with his bowl of cream could be transformed all too swiftly into a tomcat on the prowl.

I did drink some of the medicine but when my head started to spin I lay down on the bed. The medicine felt as if it might work. I drank some more. Ten minutes later, overcome by the desire to extricate myself from Terence’s bedroom, I pressed my right hand down upon the book which sat on the bedside table and levered myself to my feet. The room promptly revolved, and when I clawed at the table to steady myself the book shot off on to the floor. When I felt better I crawled to the rescue. The book’s spine was broken. The pages had fallen open at Terence’s place which was marked by a letter, and as I was reaching for the book I saw the Mexican stamps on the envelope.

I remembered Greg Da Costa had a ranch in Mexico.

I did not normally read other people’s letters, but this one tempted me because I could think of no good reason why a Van Zale employee should be in private correspondence with a man who had a huge grudge against Paul.

Perhaps the letter had come from someone else. I took a peek in the envelope and deciphered the word ‘Greg’. That settled it. Abandoning my attempt to behave like a lady I read the letter from end to end.

‘Come down whenever you want,’ Greg Da Costa had written in a large, curiously uneducated handwriting, ‘but my advice is don’t wait too long. Hope all goes well with the parade down Wall Street. Workers of the world unite! Christ, how my poor father would have laughed, God rest his blueblooded, Eastern Seaboard soul! Cable me if there’s any hitch. Good luck. GREG.’

I read the letter three times and became more disturbed with each reading. What interest could Greg Da Costa possibly have in a parade which Terence had told me would be a complete waste of time? What was the ‘hitch’ he feared and why was Terence to cable him? And why was Terence being advised to flee to Mexico at the earliest opportunity?

Yet the letter betrayed nothing, and there was no phrase which was incapable of a trivial explanation. Terence could be cultivating Greg to keep an eye on his activities. It would be consistent with his position as Paul’s chief of police. If the marchers planned some noisy demonstration of
their political beliefs on the doorstep of Van Zale’s, Greg could well be gleeful in anticipation of Paul’s embarrassment, and the ‘hitch’ might refer to the possibility of Bruce being arrested. Even the invitation to Mexico, when seen in the context of Greg’s illiterate handwriting, might possibly have no connection with the subject of the parade which followed it. Greg could even have been referring to some change in the climate when he had advised Terence not to delay his visit too long.

I told myself repeatedly that there was no melodramatic explanation, but when I read the letter a fourth time I was conscious not of its ambiguities but of the air of conspiracy which permeated it. It was only after I had replaced the letter that I saw the book’s title. It was
The Great Gatsby
, Fitzgerald’s story of a man who had created a new world for himself in order to win a rich man’s wife.