believe that, you believe anything. What a stupid little tail, curled over like that. Why didn’t you ask me? I’d have bought you a proper dog.’
‘Thank you, Harry’s perfect.’
Delia knew that Richie wasn’t a man who could easily be kept out of anywhere he wanted to be; her Chelsea house would no longer seem safe to Jessica.
‘Talk about not wanting to take a hint,’ she said. ‘Why doesn’t he accept that the marriage is over, that it’s been a failure?’
‘Why ask? Nothing Richie does can be a failure.’
Delia had her own opinion about that. Richie was a failure as a human being, and not all his glowing war record as an ace fighter in the RAF, the brilliance as a speaker that had taken him into Parliament, his dashing good looks, his wealth, his connections or his influence made up for the fact that, deep down, ‘He’s a shit,’ she said.
‘I know that, and you know that, but he’s no such thing in the eyes of the world, and that’s why I’m now the demon woman for daring to leave him. My loving husband, so wonderful, how could I want to divorce him?’
‘Yes, it’s tough on you that the press eat out of his hand. Did you know that he and Giles Slattery go back a long way? They were at school together.’
Delia saw the flash of anxiety in Jessica’s eyes, those eyes that always showed when a sensitive spot had been touched.
‘I had no idea,’ Jessica said. ‘That’s an unholy alliance, if you like. Oh, God, do you suppose Richie sicked Slattery on to me? Just to torment?’
‘I expect so. It’s a good way of keeping tabs on you, while keeping his own nose clean.’
‘I’m going to have to get away. Go abroad. Only do you think the reporters would follow me there?’
‘What, send out search parties all over the Continent? You aren’t that much of a story.’
‘I wish I weren’t any kind of a story at all. Oh, why didn’t I listen to you? If I had, I wouldn’t be in this fix now.’
Delia had never really got to the heart of the reason why Jessica had married Richard Meldon. On the surface, it seemed a perfect match, but to one who knew Jessica as well as she did, it was doomed to disaster. Her reaction to Jessica’s engagement to Richie had been openly unenthusiastic.
‘Marry that man? Jessica, you can’t be serious. Go and take a cold bath, or hop on a banana boat to South America, anything to make you come to your senses.’
‘What’s wrong with Richie? He’s handsome, successful—’
‘And rich. Is he in love with you, or the fact that your family goes back for nine centuries? And what about his liking for older women?’
‘What older women?’
‘He has a reputation, that’s all. He’s discreet about it, but I heard from Fanny Arbuthnot that—’
‘Fanny’s a tedious gossip and always has been.’
‘Maybe, but she stayed with some people in the south of France and your Richie was among those present, and spent a good deal of his time in the company of Jane Hinton, who must be quite twenty years older than he is. And Fanny says he’s known for it.’
‘As it happens, I don’t care. My past is past, and so is his. Neither of us is coming virginal and innocent to the bridal chamber, why should I mind who he’s slept with before me?’
‘It’s who he’ll sleep with after you that you should worry about,’ Delia muttered.
‘Make me a cocktail,’ Jessica said. ‘A strong one.’
‘You’re drinking too much.’
‘It keeps the goblins at bay.’
‘Yes, it’s a pity you ever married the wretched man,’ Delia said. ‘I still don’t understand how you came to do anything so stupid. It wasn’t as though your friends didn’t warn you.’
‘Oh, trust me to make a mistake,’ Jessica said. ‘When you get into scrapes, you somehow manage to wriggle out of them, don’t you? With my scrapes, I end up having to live with the consequences.’
‘Richie’s more than a scrape.’
‘Unfortunately, he is. And marriage—God, what a colossal mistake that was. A few words said in front of an indifferent clergyman, and bang! you’re bound in chains.’
‘He’s still adamant about no divorce?’
‘Of course he is. He won’t hear of it, just shouts me down. I always thought divorce was quite simple. Didn’t you think, as I did, that the man of honour hops off down to Brighton to be found in bed with the chambermaid or whoever he’s paid for the privilege, and bingo, six months later you’re a free woman?’
‘Only Richie won’t do the honourable thing.’
‘Has Richie ever done an honourable thing in his life?’
They adjourned to the kitchen, where Delia rescued the coffee and they sat on either side of the kitchen table, with Harry between their feet.
‘Abroad isn’t such a bad idea,’ Delia said. ‘Where could you go? It would have to be somewhere Richie couldn’t track you down. It’s tricky, because even if you book yourself into some pension in a remote French village, you have to fill in all those forms for the police. And what officials know, Richie will be able to find out.’
‘I know,’ said Jessica. ‘Christ, what a mess.’ She looked down at the table. ‘You haven’t opened your letters. That’s me barging in and distracting you.’
‘They’re hardly important. An electricity bill, a moan from my agent and a lawyer’s letter.’ Delia began to cough again, and Jessica silently rose and got her a drink of water.
‘It doesn’t sound as though you’ve got rid of your bronchitis.’
‘No, it just lingers. The dreadful weather doesn’t help, and there’s nothing I can do except wait for it to clear up, which the specialist says it will, eventually.’
‘You’ve seen a specialist, then?’
‘Of course I have. All we singers rush to our favourite man at the hint of a sore throat or a chest infection.’
Delia was an opera singer, still too young at twenty-seven for the really major roles, but she was considered a rising star, booked for Glyndebourne, Sadler’s Wells, the Royal Opera House—and due to make her Salzburg debut that summer.
‘That’s what my agent’s moaning about,’ she said, opening his letter with some reluctance. ‘Yes, here we go, fatal to get a name for unreliability, can I give him a firm date when I will be well enough…’ She scrunched up the letter. ‘And this one is from my father’s lawyers,’ she went on. ‘God knows what he’s up to.’
She
