Page 25 of The Gathering Storm (Morland Dynasty #36)
One of the facilities in the ship was the wireless-telephone connection to every part of the world, and the telegraph office was one of the busiest places on board.
The passengers had been chattering away to friends ashore all the way across, with the result that by the time Polly checked into her room in the Plaza, flowers, messages and invitations had already begun to arrive.
One bouquet was from Freda Holland, containing an invitation to her latest exhibition.
Across the bottom she had scrawled, ‘Welcome back! Call me!’
Queen Mary turned round in two days, and since it seemed absurd to go so far for so little time, she had elected to take the following crossing and stay a week.
Her first day was occupied with shopping, and she rediscovered how busy and noisy New York was.
She was exhausted by the end of the afternoon, but a long bath in the fabulously appointed bathroom revived her, and she went out to dine with the Whitneys, who were keen racehorse owners.
The male Whitneys were polo players and had known Ren Alexander – many of them had profited by his financial advice – while the women had bought Polly Modes, so there was plenty to talk about.
So many invitations were arriving that a week seemed not nearly long enough: she should have arranged to stay a month or two.
She would have to prune drastically, but Freda Holland had been so kind in the past she felt obliged to accept her invitation for the opening on the following day.
It was an exhibition of modern realist painters, like Edward Hopper, Grant Wood and Thomas Hart Benton, so she hoped it would not be too challenging to the eye.
Besides, Freda knew everyone and her launches were always well-attended, so Polly hoped to meet some of the people she would not have time otherwise to visit.
She arrived at half past eleven, when the severely fashionable were only just getting up. None but genuine art lovers and critics were present, though that still constituted quite a crowd. But Freda spotted her at once and came straight over.
‘You haven’t changed a bit! Still as lovely as ever. Now, someone’s going to drag me away any moment, so tell me quickly, what are you doing in New York?’
‘I was invited by Cunard-White Star as a guest on Queen Mary ’s maiden voyage. My textile company supplied the linens.’
‘But why alone? Where is Mr Polly? It must be five or six years since you lost the fabulous Ren Alexander. Why haven’t you been snapped up?’
Polly said, ‘I’ve been too busy. I have a big estate to run in England.’
‘Wasn’t there a brother?’ Freda said, with a frown of concentration. ‘I’m sure I remember someone telling me. They met him in Paris – big, handsome fellow with too much charm for one person.’
‘That sounds like James. Yes, he’s in Paris, working for Charles Bedaux.’
‘Ah, the ineffable Charlie!’ Freda said.
‘I know him well. I remember now, it was Sophie Talbot-Manners who told me she knew your brother. She and Daisy Fellowes met him at Hélène Gilbert’s.
Oh, they ’ve just had a big disappointment, poor things – an exhibition they were planning in London fell through.
The work was just too modern for the backers and they pulled out.
And the worst thing is—’ She broke off. ‘Damn, Rathbone Oldfield’s just arrived.
The Times ’s critic. Terribly influential and terribly self-important.
I’ll have to go. He’ll expect me to show him everything in person, or he’ll take offence and give me a bad review.
I’ll catch up with you later, darling.’ She slid away through the crowd.
Polly thought she should look at the paintings, and found them easy to enjoy – scenes of American life painted in clear and realistic detail. She was absorbed in examining a canvas showing a field being harvested when a very quiet voice behind her said, ‘Polly?’
She felt the hair lift on her scalp; even her arms goose-bumped. She knew that voice. Quiet as it was, and with the din of chatter all around, she knew it. Slowly she turned, and he was there, looking at her with a troubled half-smile, as though not sure of his welcome.
He was standing so close he was almost touching her.
She could see the fine lines around his eyes, the sheen of his skin over his cheekbones, the tiny scar that ran into his left eyebrow, the slight redness above his collar where it had chafed him.
She saw every detail of him all at once, and felt hollow with shock.
Erich . She said his name, but didn’t voice it – it was a movement of her lips, without breath. His presence was so overwhelming that for the moment she could not speak or think, only be . The whole world had become one small square of space in an art gallery in New York, and the man before her.
‘How are you here?’ When words came to her, it was as a banal question in an everyday voice.
His answer was commonplace too. Perhaps it was all that was safe in a moment so charged.
‘Freda sent me an invitation. I thought I should come, as she’s been so good to me over the years.
’ He paused, licked his lips. His eyes were so blue, it was as though the colour had just been invented. ‘I didn’t know you’d be here.’
‘Nobody knew I was coming. And you – you left Paris?’ She didn’t quite like to ask him why, so she made the statement a question.
‘My exhibition was cancelled.’
‘So I heard.’ It didn’t really matter what they said – it was just a way to stay there looking at each other. She ached to touch him.
‘I thought I’d never see you again,’ he said. He lowered his voice even further. ‘ Herzliebste .’
It was the ultimate act of love for him to speak to her in German, and instantly she felt weak with longing. ‘Can we—?’ she began.
‘Polly? Polly Alexander? Oh, my Gahd , I haven’t seen you in an age !
’ A whirlwind of colour, expensive perfume, furs and diamonds burst between them.
Polly was embraced, Erich displaced by the sheer impetus.
Polly recognised a society female who had been one of her couture customers, but couldn’t for the instant remember her name.
‘How are you? What are you doing these days?’ the intruder gushed.
Polly said something, she had no idea what.
It didn’t matter. Maggie Belascu – yes, that was her name, wife of a shipping millionaire – did the talking.
Polly was terrified that Erich would go away, or be drawn off by some art-lover or critic, and she would lose him; she was desperate to be rid of this interruption.
To make polite conversation was more than she could bear just now.
As Maggie drew a breath, breaking the flow of words, she plunged in: ‘Maggie, darling, I’m wild to have a real long talk with you but I absolutely have to go and speak to Freda right this minute.
Forgive me?’ And, without waiting for her to respond, she turned away.
Erich was still there – thank God, thank God! Their eyes met, exchanging the same message. ‘Now?’ he said.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said.
He took her hand and burrowed his way through the crowds.
At the door there was a knot of newly arrived people, fashionable and wealthy and loud people, some of whom Polly knew, and she was afraid they’d be stopped.
But the gallery attendant was still holding the door open, and Erich dodged through, drawing her with him, just as he let it go, and it swung slowly shut after them.
It was as neat a manoeuvre as a chessmaster’s checkmate.
They were out and safe, and she laughed at the thought of the society people gaping after her fleeing back.
They were out into the busy street, the clear May sunshine and sharp shadows, the traffic filling the tarmac river of Fifth Avenue like a single articulated beast, gaudy with yellow cabs.
He hailed one and they scrambled in. He looked at her. ‘Where shall we go?’
New York was full of bars and restaurants and cafés.
There was Central Park. There were many places they would not be known to anyone.
There was her room at the Plaza, but it would not be respectable to take him there.
She knew in that instant that she did not want to be respectable.
The social rules, the iron bars enclosing behaviour that every decent woman lived by, were dissolving fast under an overwhelming need that left her feeling weak and almost sick.
‘I want to be alone with you,’ she said, and the huge confession seemed to release something in her, so that the sickness abated, and what she contemplated seemed the most natural thing in the world, like drinking water when you were thirsty.
He smiled, and the smile flooded her like hot sunshine. ‘I’ve rented a walk-up,’ he said. ‘Shall we go there?’
The driver had pulled out into the traffic to free space at the kerb for the next taxi-cab. Now he glanced in the mirror and said, ‘I ain’t no mind-reader, bud.’
‘West Third Street, corner of Broadway,’ Erich said.
Now I’m ruined , Polly thought. I’m a fallen woman . But it only made her smile more. Nothing like that mattered now. His name called itself inside her head over and over like the blink of a flashing buoy – Erich, Erich, Erich . She was going home.
She lay in his arms, her head on his shoulder, breathing the scent of his skin. She had forgotten in the years apart how absolutely right it felt to be with him. He was the place she ought to be. It was relief, it was Ah, yes, there you are. Now I can stop looking .