Page 26 of The Lavender Bride

25

Surprisingly (and probably due to the brandy) I sleep well under my enormous pile of blankets but wake early, feeling cold. My lacy silk nightdress is no help at all. Winceyette like I wore back in Sheffield would be more the ticket in this climate. As soon as I wake up, my brain starts racing, trying to work out what on earth I’m going to do.

Rex wasn’t here when I got back last night. By the fact he’d taken his toothbrush and washbag, I assumed he’d gone to spend the night with Tony. I can only hope my words got through to him and he’s being more circumspect now.

I shiver and throw the covers back to grab my housecoat. When I pull the curtains back, there’s a film of ice on the outside windows. I rub a patch of condensation away and peer out. It’s still dark. I can stay here worrying about Rex until breakfast or if I hurry, I can catch the golden hour when the light is at its best. As photography always makes me happier, I decide the latter is the better plan.

I’m downstairs by quarter past seven. Through the wide windows facing the lake, the darkness is fading. As soon as I open the front door, it’s clear I’m inadequately dressed even in my fur topcoat. Icy fingers of air brush every uncovered inch of skin. I wish desperately for a woolly hat and mittens instead of my fashionable shell cap and suede gloves. It’s not snowed overnight but it’s frozen hard. There’s ice on all of the paths. I walk carefully down towards the lake, aware of the treacherous slipperiness beneath the soles of my saddle shoes.

It’s worth it though as over the mountains to the east the sky turns pink, followed by apricot. When the sun strikes the icy lake, it glitters like diamonds. I take photo after photo, fascinated by the changing light, wishing all the time that I had Rita’s skills with landscapes.

My fingers are numb by the time I finish. I blow on my hands to try to warm them before I put my gloves back on. As I turn to go back inside, I spot a movement off to the left at the end of the smaller block of the hotel. Two men are coming around the corner. One is Rex: I spot him by his height and the breadth of his shoulders. The other is Tony Young. They’re holding hands.

My breath huffs out in a cloud. After everything I said last night! He promised me he’d be more careful and now he’s doing this?

I glance around. There are a few people about. A groundsman, bundled up in a thick plaid coat and fur hat, is spreading grit on the paths; a couple who are about my age, who have come out to see the sunrise, are walking back towards the hotel entrance. Any of them could be the spy Dirk warned me about.

As Tony and Rex come towards me, a rage builds inside of me. I raise my camera to my eye and focus on the two of them. Maybe if I take these then Rex will realise the risk he’s running. Something needs to make him come to his senses. I snap one of them holding hands, another as they smile at each other as they share a joke. I wind the film on and as I get them in the viewfinder this time, Rex is raising his hand to cup Tony’s face. It’s a gesture of infinite tenderness.

It’s as if I’ve swallowed hot coals. Why has no one ever touched me like that? I want Jack to but it’s not happened because I’ve been a good wife and kept away from him. Why did I bother if Rex was going to reveal the lies at the heart of our marriage to the whole world? As I press the shutter button, my hands are shaking. With longing, with loss, with yearning and with anger for what I’ve given up.

I sag back against the wall behind me. Cold seeps through my tweed skirt but I don’t move. Rex really does love Tony. It’s clear as day now I’ve seen them together.

* * *

In the dining room, I get cornered by Mrs Seton. She keeps up a constant stream of fairly inane chatter as we eat our toast. When I comment on the cold, she looks at my pretty mauve sweater and says, ‘Someone should have warned you, dear. I told all of my girls to bring union suits.’

Needless to say, my own undies are nowhere near as warm or practical as a union suit which can swaddle you in wool from ankle to breastbone. I gave up such practical garments when I arrived in Los Angeles and hoped I’d never need them again but it seems I have no choice if I don’t want to freeze for the next week.

‘Then I need to do some shopping,’ I reply briskly, as this will be an excellent reason to make my excuses and escape. ‘Where should I go?’

‘Banff’s the only option. The hotel reception can sort out a car for you.’

I didn’t know what to do today and this seems like as good a plan as any other. At least it gives me a bit of breathing space and time to think away from the hotel. It’s clear that the situation with Rex is impossible. The question now, as Jack asked last night, is what I’m going to do about it.

I order the car and return to our suite. Rex has been back long enough to create havoc in the bathroom. As I tidy up after him, memories of that last conversation with Freddie flit through my brain. I was so angry with him. He’d been so dismissive of me and our friendship, as if none of that mattered.

Absently, I clutch a folded towel to my chest and stare out at the lake. Six years have passed since then but Rex’s betrayal hurts just as much. I thought life as a movie star’s wife was worth giving up on the hope of being loved. I was utterly and totally wrong. Ginny and Nate have shown me that.

In truth, I have only one option: the D-word. Lee Miller got divorced. As did Elizabeth Taylor and Judy Garland. So why does the thought of it make me feel like a hussy who’s no better than she ought to be? That’s what Father would say.

I return the towel to the bathroom and snatch up my handbag. Father will be unhappy whatever I do. He always has been. I’ve never been anything but a disappointment to him. But I’m a married woman of twenty-four. Isn’t it time to stop worrying what Father thinks?

* * *

The trip down to Banff is spectacular and distracting. There’s less snow as we descend but the mountain scenery is still breathtaking. I make Bruce, the driver, stop the black Oldsmobile several times to let me take photographs. Each time I climb out, there’s a stiff breeze that plucks at my clothes. It’s more pronounced by the time we arrive in the town. Bruce drops me at Banff Avenue and asks if I mind being picked up at 3.30p.m. as he’s already arranged to bring another guest back at that time. I assure him that’s absolutely fine.

Banff is like a frontier town out of a Western. There’s a line of shops with cars parked outside but it honestly feels like the sheriff could ride in at any moment. Snow has been cleared from the pavements but still dusts the rooftops.

I locate a ladies’ outfitters which stocks practical and warm clothes. I buy a union suit, woollen stockings, a woolly hat with flowers embroidered on it, scarf, sheepskin gloves and a coat that actually fastens. The lady who serves me is very understanding when I request to wear the outer layers immediately. She wraps my fur topper and flimsy shell cap with my new purchases, making them into two neat brown paper parcels tied up with string. I agree to collect them later and head off to find some lunch.

Outside, the wind has got up. It flattens my skirt against my legs and tugs at my new coat. I’m grateful for the warmth of the woolly hat as I walk up the street, looking for a café.

I’ve barely eaten since I arrived at Lake Louise but I make up for that over lunch, wolfing down a turkey sandwich and following it with cherry pie.

Being in Banff feels like playing hooky. I’m sure Dirk and the studio expect me to be at the Chateau waiting for Rex to come back from filming. But I have a life too. One that I’ve put on hold for my husband for too long, allowing my interests, including my photography, to take a backseat to Rex’s needs.

I push my empty plates aside and peer out of the café window. I’ve got a few hours until the car takes me back to Chateau Lake Louise and all the problems that are waiting for me there. Until then, I’m going to do what suits me.

* * *

Despite the wind, which has got even stronger while I’ve been eating, I go for a walk along the river and take even more photographs, feeling more inspired than I’ve done in months.

When I change the film, I stash the one I took earlier in the zipped compartment of my handbag. I’ll develop it when I’m in my darkroom where I can ensure only my eyes see the prints.

If I tell Rex I took them, will that be enough to make him more cautious with Tony? Or will he think I’m simply being difficult? I sigh – probably the latter. Especially as I didn’t exactly mince my words last night.

I return to the café for a hot chocolate to warm up. As I drink it, snow starts to fall. The flakes are huge and fluffy. I watch them idly, reminded of the terrible winter of 1947 when we had six weeks of snow. It was as high as the windowsills. I helped Mum dig the path down to the gate every morning. When the fuel shortages kicked in, we spent our evenings by candlelight as if we were back in Victorian times.

It’s hard walking against the wind and snow as I return to the ladies’ outfitters to pick up my parcels. I’m buffeted by gusts that slow me to a halt and then have to battle on again. Clutching the parcels to my chest, I head to Banff Avenue. Snow swirls in my face, sticking to my eyelashes. I’m five minutes early and take shelter in the lee of the drug store.

A man in an overcoat and tweed cap walks towards me. He’s ten feet away when I realise it’s Jack. My heart leaps. What’s he doing here? Then I remember Bruce saying he’d arranged to pick someone else up at 3.30p.m. The thought of sitting next to him in the car for the journey back is both thrilling and frustrating. Because we won’t be able to talk. Not like we need to with Bruce able to hear every word.

I grin as he approaches. I see the exact moment he spots me and does a double-take. His face lightens and he smiles.

‘Audrey! What are you doing here?’ Then he laughs rather ruefully. ‘Will we ever stop asking each other that question?’

‘Shopping.’ I gesture with one of my parcels. ‘And taking photographs.’

‘It’s pretty damned stunning, isn’t it?’ He raises a gloved hand and gestures at the mountain behind the town. ‘Reminds me of home.’

‘Oregon’s like this?’ I brush snowflakes from my nose. ‘How did you ever leave?’

He laughs, low and gravelly. ‘Not much call for prop makers where I come from.’ Then he tilts his head and a slow grin appears. ‘Like the hat!’

I self-consciously put a hand on it. ‘I know it looks like a tea cosy but it’s warm.’

‘A very pretty tea cosy.’

I try to shoot him a look but snowflakes are sticking to my eyelashes.

He points along the street. ‘Here’s our ride.’

The black Oldsmobile pulls up at the rear of the line of parked cars. Jack opens the rear door for me. I walk carefully over the slush that’s accumulated at the edge of the road, shifting my parcels into one hand. A gust of wind slams into me, wrenching the parcels from my hand. Jack’s arm goes round me. One parcel tumbles into the footwell, the other falls from my hand into the slush.

‘Let me.’ Jack’s arm cradles me as he helps me into the car. His sudden proximity is startling. I glance at his face. See the way the skin crinkles around his eyes, the smooth line of his jaw, the quirk of one eyebrow. My breath catches. Heat floods through me despite the cold.

He hands me the other parcel.

‘Thank you,’ I murmur.

What was that? But I already know the answer. It’s the longing I’ve felt since Ginny’s wedding. I want Jack to hold me, kiss me and make love to me. I want him to touch me in places I’ve never been touched…

I blush. Heat streaks up my cheeks. I press my gloved hands against them. Oh, my goodness! I shouldn’t be thinking like this. I’m a married woman. But perhaps not for all that much longer. If I leave Rex, I’ll be free. Free to explore whatever this is between Jack and me.

Jack gets in at the opposite side and slides across the seat towards me. His overcoat fans out around him and underneath its fabric, his hand reaches for mine. We exchange one secret smile and then stare out of opposite windows.

There’s a tingle from where our hands touch that runs right up my arm. It’s as if I’ve woken up. Not from sleep but from stupor. I’ve spent all this time worrying about what Rex needs and not thought about me and what I need. And suddenly, I know with absolute clarity what that is. I need a man who wants me as I want him. I want to be touched and held and loved.

I glance across at Jack and his head turns to meet my gaze. Those eyes! What they do to me!

The wind buffets the car. With my free hand, I grip the inside door handle. Another buffet comes and I hold on tighter. I clear a space in the steamed-up window and peer out.

Snow has covered the ground, forming knee-high drifts. Rows of pine trees line the road. Apart from the fact all of the conifers are bent by the wind, it looks like a Christmas card. Its sharp, clear beauty calls to something deep inside of me. A suppressed homesickness, a yearning for crisp, wintery mornings when everything seemed made new. For going out in the snow and coming back, chilled and ravenous to a roaring fire. For home.

I sit back against the seat as memories rush through me. Going sledging with Freddie. Wellington boots and wet gloves. Feeling free as a bird as the sledge carried me down the slope. Falling off, laughing, at the bottom.

The thought of Freddie doesn’t bring the usual morass of emotions. I’m trying to work out why that is when Jack shifts to lean forward and asks Bruce, ‘Do you think we’ll get back okay?’

‘Should do so long as you folks are in no rush.’

Jack glances at me and smiles. ‘Take all the time you need,’ he says.

The snow gets denser as we start to climb. Our pace slows to not much more than a crawl. The windscreen wipers creak under the accumulated weight of snow and ice. The light’s fading now, darkness hastened by the weather.

When we stop ten minutes later, Jack shuffles to the centre of the seats to look through the windscreen. I peer around the passenger seat. All I can see is a lorry carrying a load of timber and half a dozen cars ahead of us. There’s no traffic coming the other way. Snow has already carpeted that side of the road. A burly man, his cap pulled down low, trudges towards us through the snow and taps on Bruce’s window.

‘Tree down up ahead,’ he says. ‘Road’s blocked. You’ll not get up to Lake Louise tonight.’

‘Damn, it’s late in the year for that,’ Bruce says before thanking the man. He winds the window back up and turns to us. ‘I’m sorry, folks, but I’m going to have to take you back to Banff.’

‘But that’s twenty miles in snow that’s getting deeper by the minute. Isn’t there anywhere else?’ The worry in Jack’s voice reminds me that he’s from the mountains of Oregon. I trust his instincts. If he thinks it’s a bad idea then I’m not going to argue.

‘There’s a lodge at Castle Junction,’ the driver says. ‘It’s pretty basic but they might be able to find you a couple of rooms for the night.’

I look at Jack, who shrugs as he meets my gaze. ‘I don’t mind roughing it. What about you, Audrey?’

A snow-bound cabin? With Jack? For a whole night? After a year of snatched conversations in very public locations, it feels like a gift from the gods and I’m not going to turn it down.

‘Fine with me. I lived through the winter of ’47. I’m sure I can manage a night in a cabin.’

Jack’s hand tightens around mine. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t have to. I already know he’s as thrilled at the prospect as I am.