would be.
‘They are good,’ she said, picking up one of the lambs to examine it more closely. She held it to her face, and regarded Nina through the oval, slanting eye holes. Then she lowered the mask again and the two women looked straight at each other.
‘Are you sure they are what you wanted?’ Nina asked.
‘Yes. Really, they’re perfect. I could never have made anything half so good.’
Marcelle wrapped them carefully and put them aside. There were play costumes all round the room, arranged on hangers hooked to the picture rail, everything labelled and pressed ready for the dress rehearsal.
There was a moment’s silence.
Marcelle wondered what she should say, whether there was some word of caution or advice or admonition for Vicky’s sake that she might offer. Nothing came into her head, and she saw Nina twisting her wedding ring round and round her finger. The ring appeared too loose for her. She felt sad, and sorry for Nina as well as Vicky.
Nina also waited. She didn’t know Marcelle well enough, but she wished she could confide in her. Could she plead with her now, Don’t judge us too harshly. Don’t assume it is only what you think, a bald and commonplace act of adultery.
But then, how else could she explain what it was to Vicky’s friend? By emphasizing her own need, or Gordon’s, or the happiness that they generated for each other when they were together?
There was nothing, she realized, that she could say to excuse herself or Gordon. The weight of dislike and mistrust coming from Marcelle was no more than she should expect.
Neither of them spoke, and the silence lengthened into awkwardness. It was Marcelle who broke it, at last.
‘Thank you for helping me out. It must have taken hours of your time.’
Now they could not mention what they both knew because the moment for it had slipped past. Marcelle was angry with herself, and at the two of them for placing her in this dilemma.
‘It didn’t take that long,’ Nina lied. ‘I’m glad there was something useful I could do.’
Marcelle would not tell anyone, Nina was finally sure of that. We must be careful from now on, she thought, experi-encing a surprising surge of relief and gratitude that made her almost lightheaded.
Michael Wickham looked in to the dining room. It was after eight, but he was formally dressed as if he had only just come in from the hospital. Nina had the impression that he was irritated by the sight of them hovering with their masks and by the clutter of costumes, but he made the offer of a drink politely enough.
‘Yes, do stay and have a drink,’ Marcelle echoed. ‘A drink, at least. I feel that I ought to be offering you dinner, after all you have done.’
‘Is there any dinner?’ Michael dryly interrupted.
‘Yes. In half an hour.’
Gordon had promised Nina that he would telephone this evening. Vicky would be out of the house for two hours, after the children were asleep. She said quickly, ‘I can’t stay even for a drink, but thank you anyway. If there’s anything else last-minute I can do …’
Marcelle did not suggest anything. Nina said good night to the Wickhams and drove back to Dean’s Row.
*
‘Did Marcelle say anything?’ Gordon asked. He was sitting on the edge of the double bed, looking out beyond the undrawn bedroom curtains to the grape-black sky. There were toys and baby clothes on the floor by his feet.
‘No.’
It was one of their flat, melancholy telephone conversations. Sometimes they could forget the distance and talk as if they were touching each other, but tonight everything they said seemed to convey less than they meant. They both wondered what they were doing, begging questions, making these banal offerings of words into thin, humming space.
‘When can I see you again?’ Nina asked. She twisted the spiral cord of the telephone around her little finger.
‘I don’t know. I’m not sure, it’s not a good week. And Andrew made some crack this evening about my disappearing acts.’
Nina wondered why he should have to account for himself to Andrew, but she only said, ‘Does that make it difficult? I’m sorry.’
‘There’s no reason for you to be sorry.’ With an effort, wanting to change the direction, he said, ‘I love you.’
‘I know,’ Nina answered soberly.
It was plain that the mood would not change, and neither could offer the other any comfort. Gordon tried to imagine how it would be if he left the house and the children and drove straight to her.
‘I’ll call you soon,’ he promised.
‘Yes. Please call.’
She hung up, wanting to sever the connection for herself.
The night of the nativity play came.
Nina had imagined that she would not go, but when it was time she found herself drawn across the cathedral green to join the people who gathered together in convivial groups at the west door. After all, she told herself, she could not hide in her house for ever.
The chapter house was packed. Nina slipped quietly around the octagonal margin, looking for an empty place on one of the benches. She nodded to the handful of familiar faces in the crowd as she passed by. At length she found a single seat, removed from anyone she knew, and sat down with her hands folded in her lap. Marcelle and Michael sat near the front, with Jonathan fidgeting in between them. Marcelle felt a flutter of nerves for Daisy’s sake. Stella Rose sat on the other side of Marcelle. Her face was calm as she gazed intently upwards at the geometrical tracery of the windows. Jimmy Rose was a Catholic. He very rarely chose to accompany his wife to the great barn, as he called the cathedral.
The Frosts and Toby, nagged into a dark blazer for the occasion, sat two rows behind them. By tradition, they would join the Wickhams later for a drink. Andrew always jovially referred to this occasion as the Christmas kick-off. Janice knew and greeted almost everybody in the Grafton audience.
Nina saw the Cleggs come in. Hannah was wearing ankle-length dark mink, her blonde hair in striking contrast to the smooth fur. Hannah held Laura’s hand and Darcy guided Freddie. The two small children were dressed in double-breasted dark blue coats with velvet collars. Behind their father came Cathy and Lucy, attracting their due of covertly or openly admiring glances. Following the twins was a big, blond young man Nina had never seen before. When he turned sideways to ease between the benches she saw his profile, and recognized the family resemblance.
She had been looking at the Clegg boy, and then her glance travelled away, drawn along a valley between the row of heads. With the shock that was now becoming familiar, she saw Gordon. His two little girls sat between him and Vicky. Vicky was on the end of a row, with a white bundle in her arms. Her hair had been cut into a neat, shiny bob. All four of them were staring straight ahead, a model family, quietly waiting for the play to begin.
There was a movement to Nina’s right, at the great double doors of the chapter house. Then there was an
