Page 22 of The Lavender Bride

21

The cars arrive, windows down, music blaring from the radios. They follow the drive around to the back of the house. I’ve got the windows open as it’s a warm July night and shouts of greeting and blasts of laughter float into me.

This is the fifth Saturday in a row that Rex has had a party in the bar on the top floor. I never see the faces of the men who come. I only hear the tramp of their footsteps up the back stairs, the muted rumble of their voices.

I’m watching The Frank Sinatra Show on our recently installed television set. Upstairs, the music gets going. Rex plays country music for his parties and above my head, Hank Snow is singing ‘I’m Moving On’. I get up to turn the volume on the television up so I can hear Frank. Muffin jumps on the sofa and curls up next to me. Rex doesn’t like her sitting on the furniture but on Saturday evenings, I forget about his rules. After all, I don’t like him having thirty or forty blokes I don’t know over for a party.

I watch the television until my eyes are gritty with exhaustion and finally call it a night after eleven. I know I won’t sleep. I barely slept on the last four Saturday nights.

The music is louder as I climb the stairs but not loud enough to drown out the voices. Everyone sounds like they’re having the most fantastic time. There’s whooping and hollering as if they’re all in on some tremendous joke. Reaching the landing, I smell cigarette smoke. It makes my stomach churn. Rex knows how I feel about people smoking in the house. I’ve begged him to stop people smoking up there but he doesn’t listen.

I rush through the bathroom as ‘Always Late (with Your Kisses)’ booms above my head. In my bedroom, I close the windows against the din but that leaves the room hot and airless. Better that than lying awake listening to every laugh and grunt and thud.

I get into my queen-sized bed and Muffin takes up her usual spot, curled up next to my legs. The music has switched to ‘The Rhumba Boogie’. The footsteps form a pattern as if there’s people dancing immediately above my head.

I try not to imagine what’s going on up there. The first week, when the noise levels didn’t drop at midnight, I put my housecoat on and went upstairs. I intended to speak quietly to Rex and ask him to turn the music down so I could sleep. But what I saw through the window stopped me. He was dancing with a man, literally cheek to cheek, their bodies wrapped so closely together, you’d not get a reed between them. It wasn’t Tony. I saw that much. And around them, others were playing pool, kissing, laughing, putting their hands in places hands do not normally go.

I was flustered and embarrassed and confused because what was going on was wholly outside anything I knew. Is this what Freddie wouldn’t talk about? Are these the things men do together that he wouldn’t explain?

As I tiptoed back downstairs, jealousy burned in my chest. Not because I wanted Rex to touch me like that. I accepted long ago that would never happen. But that someone touches him, dances with him, maybe even kisses him while I’m as chaste as a vestal virgin. The only living creature I touch most days is Muffin and it’s not enough. I want to be held, caressed, kissed, experience all the things marriage is supposed to bring.

I lay in bed that night as the music thrummed above my head, feeling utterly out of my depth. Why had I not realised when he showed me the bar upstairs what went on there? Had I really thought he just had a few friends around to play pool? In truth, I had been hopelessly na?ve. Just as Father and Freddie said.

I have since acquired a pair of earplugs. I put them in and the music drops to a muted hum but the beat seems to reverberate through the ceiling, down the walls and to my bed. I tell myself I’m imagining it as I turn over and put the spare pillow over my head.

Maybe I start to drift off but then I smell cigarette smoke and am instantly awake. I leap out of bed. My heart is pounding as if Father will walk through the door at any minute. The smoke from his pipe was the early warning that he was approaching. Everything inside of me would tense, wondering what mood he was in, whether he would yell and rage and hit.

I throw open the window to clear the air but that just makes the music louder. I have to stop the smoke getting in. My bedroom is my haven. I can’t have it polluted. I open the cupboard, yank out a clean sheet and roll it up. I jam it into the space at the bottom of the door.

I cross to the window to close it. The party is spilling out onto the lawn. There’s two men clutching each other, staggering drunkenly towards the fountain. I let the curtain fall. I do not need to see what happens next.

I curl up in my chair and rest my cheek against my bare knees. It’s past midnight now but the party might go on for another couple of hours, maybe even three. I am unimportant in what should be my home and that makes me feel as worthless as Father always said I was.

I close my eyes and Jack’s face appears. I hold the memories tight. His hand on mine. How he squeezed my fingers when I was upset. The sympathy in his grey eyes. His concern for me.

Then the woman I saw him with at the premiere pops into my mind. The gorgeous redhead in the cream sheath dress. For all I know, he’s escorting her home after a night out. Yet I want to believe he’s thinking of me as I’m thinking of him.

As I return to bed, I take his handkerchief from my bedside cabinet. I run my finger over his initials embroidered on it in blue and then press it against my cheek. If only it could summon him to me like in a fairytale. He’d ride up on his snow-white charger and rescue me from Rex’s drunken clutches.

I sigh out a long breath which makes Muffin lift her head. ‘Yes, I know I’m being ridiculous,’ I tell her. I get back into bed, unfold Jack’s handkerchief and lay it across my pillow. One day, I’ll see him to give it back but until then, I cherish it.

* * *

In the cool light of morning, I’m ashamed of myself. I’m a grown woman. I do not need rescuing. Nor should I be weeping over a handkerchief like a Medieval maiden.

I made my bed by marrying Rex and if it’s sometimes uncomfortable then I have to remember that the alternative was everyone finding out Rex was homosexual and me definitely being a laughing stock and, potentially, being deported. I try to imagine Father and Freddie’s reactions to that. How I should have listened to their warnings that I was too flighty and silly to ever build a life for myself in America.

Yet somehow that thought doesn’t have quite the same weight as it used to. What’s the point of proving people wrong if it leaves you miserable?

As Rex will not emerge from his bedroom for hours yet, I set about entertaining myself. I walk Muffin in Runyon Canyon, returning home as the heat starts to build. Then I head into Hollywood. I have lunch in my favourite diner and then head to the cinema.

Pride keeps me solitary on these Sundays. I could telephone Rita or Ginny but I cannot bear to admit Rex is still in bed after partying the night away with his friends. Explaining all of that would lead to too many questions.

The person I really want to talk to is Mum. She’d understand how hard it is. She’d also tell me appearances have to be maintained in the same way as, back home, the doorstep had to be clean and the lace curtains pristine.

I know that’s what I’m doing. Just like Mum used to. I thought marrying Rex would make me feel confident, help me believe in myself but I feel even smaller than I did before. My own husband doesn’t treat me well. What does that say about me?

My anger with Mum has evaporated. I now understand that loyalty to your husband comes before anything else. I wanted her to choose me over Father but she was bound by the invisible chains that tie wife to husband. She did her best even though I didn’t realise at the time. She showed her love for Esther and me in the little ways, like making us clothes and saving her cheese ration. I wish I’d known those simple things carried so much love. I’d give a lot to have those sorts of kindnesses in my life now.

* * *

When I get home, Rex is sitting on the terrace. He’s in the shade but he’s got his sunglasses on. His skin is pale, there’s a sheen of sweat on his skin and he’s unshaven.

‘Where have you been?’ he asks as I step out onto the terrace.

‘To the movies.’ I keep my voice as calm as possible. I know from bitter experience that he’s on a very short fuse when he’s hungover. ‘But I’m back now. Can I get you anything?’

Sunday is Trudie’s day off and Rex expects me to step into her shoes.

‘You should be here when I wake up. I walked all the way round the house looking for you. I even went up to the darkroom.’

The darkroom was converted from an unused storeroom above the garage. I was excited about having a darkroom of my own but over the past couple of months, my passion for photography has somewhat waned. There just doesn’t seem to be anything that inspires me any more.

‘I’m sorry.’ I apologise by default. Just as I used to much of the time with Father. ‘I didn’t know how long you’d sleep for.’

He harrumphs at that. ‘Now you’re finally back, you can make me bacon and eggs.’

I nod tightly. I hate it when he treats me like I’m staff.

In the kitchen, I tie on an apron and set to work. Rex likes his eggs sunny side up and I’m careful not to overcook them. When it’s ready, I give him a call and get him a glass of water with ice to go with it. He’s not asked for that but everyone knows you need to drink water when you’ve got a hangover.

He shambles through to the kitchen and sits down at the table. I busy myself washing up the frying pan. I’m drying it when he claps his hand over his mouth and dashes out of the room. The cloakroom door bangs shut after him. I hear retching and the toilet flushes.

My stomach roils. This will be my fault.

I hover uncertainly by the kitchen door. Should I go to him? Would that help or would it just make things worse?

Long moments later, he emerges. He looks even worse than he did before. His skin is pallid, his eyes bloodshot, his nose running.

He’s tearing himself apart. I know he loves being a movie star but is it really worth destroying himself by living this half-life that makes him miserable?

He doesn’t look at me as he walks past me. He’s a big man; he towers over me. I shrink backwards, my back pressing against the worksurface as my shoulders hunch.

‘Rex, I’m sorry?—’

He grabs the plate and hurls it against the wall above my head. I shriek, covering my head with my hands as shards of pottery rain down. A rasher of bacon splats on the floor by my foot.

‘Are you trying to poison me?’ Rex stomps past me. ‘What kind of wife are you?’

I start to shake. As if from far away, I hear Rex slam the kitchen door behind him. Seconds later, the front door bangs too. I sink down the kitchen cupboards until I’m curled in a ball on the floor. Something is damp and sticky under my bottom. Blood drips from a cut on the back of my hand. I press my other hand over it. It’ll hurt like hell when the shock wears off but right now, I’m too stunned to feel it.

Muffin pads softly over and nudges me with her nose. I wrap my arms around her and the tears fall. How did I get it all so wrong? I’ve swapped living with one man who frightened me for another. How did I not see this side of Rex until it was too late?