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  Four hundred and fifty pounds! For an instant he felt almost proud of the figures, magnificent, princely. A noble gesture of a man towards his new wife on her first Christmas in the bosom of his family.

  A week ago, with pine needles scattering the carpet and sprigs of holly peering out from the tops of pictures and mirrors, it had seemed worth every penny. Ruth had slipped the coat on with delight, sinking her fingers into the silky pelt. He had felt himself a maharajah, an emperor. And there had been the lunatic notion that Santa Claus might suddenly remember his duties, there might be a windfall, a legacy–a gold necklace from the Iron Age might spring up in his back garden.

  He jabbed a pen down on the papers, considering the possibility of an overdraft, shaking his head even as he pondered the word. Some little time now since his bank manager had smiled at him; his eyes these days took on a wary, calculating look as soon as he saw Neil. Bank managers weren’t notoriously helpful to men who ran through their patrimony, actually spending capital instead of doing what every natural law commanded, sending it out to increase and multiply.

  And not only to live up to the hilt of his less than princely salary from the local council but to take a new wife in addition! None of your homely stew-and-semolina-pudding wives either but an elegant, sophisticated young woman whom any bank manager would at once associate with a regrettable taste for fillet steaks and smoked salmon.

  Ah well! Jabbing at the bills didn’t seem to have helped much, so he swept them all away into a pigeon-hole, slammed the desk shut and stood up. He’d done his bit for the time being; he’d taken the damned things out and looked at them, about all any civilized creature could be expected to do on New Year’s Day. It would be a few weeks yet before the final notices shrieked out their red-ink warnings. All kinds of things might happen in that time. He crossed over to the television set and switched it on.

  Ruth came in from the kitchen ten minutes later. She dropped into an easy chair.

  ‘I’ve made a sketchy kind of risotto with the very last final farewell remains of the turkey.’ She pulled a face. ‘I don’t wish to clap eyes on another fowl for a considerable length of time.’ Her face was flushed. A coil of her very long, very thick, very blonde hair–and naturally blonde at that–had detached itself from the pins that kept the rest of the mass piled on top of her head; she suddenly discovered the fact and skewered it back into position with a forceful gesture. She wore a nylon overall, her feet were thrust into sheepskin slippers. And with it all she contrived to look breathtakingly beautiful.

  ‘Do you know what time Jane’s coming in?’ she asked.

  Neil tore his eyes away from her and glanced at his watch. ‘She’ll be here in a few minutes.’ Friday was a late night at the library. He let his gaze rest again on his wife; he thought she was the most lovely creature he had ever seen. Fine, high cheekbones, sea-green eyes, a honey-coloured skin. She smiled at him suddenly, put out a finger and flicked it at his cheek, then she let herself slip back into the cushioned embrace of the chair.

  ‘Oh–this is nice. I’m so sleepy after last night.’ Up till all hours dining and dancing. ‘I’ll be glad to get to bed early.’

  He frowned. ‘I’m going over to see Zena after supper. I thought you might come with me.’ Tension crept into the air.

  Ruth sat up. ‘We saw Zena last night. And Owen.’ And pretty maddening Zena had been too, drinking more than was good for her, growing quarrelsome as the relentless jollity ground on. Ruth had got well and truly tired of Madame Zena, would be happy not to see her again till next New Year’s Eve.

  ‘I ran into Owen in the town at lunchtime,’ Neil explained. ‘He said Zena wasn’t very well, she’s in bed.’

  Ruth gave a little laugh. ‘I’m not surprised.’

  Neil felt irritation begin to prickle along his nerves. ‘You know she suffers from diabetes.’

  ‘She suffers from self-indulgence.’

  He decided to ignore that, being unable to think of an adequate reply. ‘So I gave her a ring, I told her I’d be over later on. I know she’s hoping you’ll come too.’

  Ruth laughed out loud. ‘Really, Neil! She can’t stand the sight of me.’ She considered for a moment whether she could be bothered to put a good face on it and go along with Neil, if he thought it so important. But she was tired and she couldn’t see much point in making the effort. She couldn’t go on making an effort for another twenty or thirty years so she might as well cease now. ‘I don’t think I will go, if you don’t mind,’ she said with easy affection. ‘You can have a good natter with her, all about the old days and dear Dad and everything. I’d only be in the way.’

  ‘Very well, just as you please.’ The injured tone that he always employed when he felt her slipping beyond his control. He passionately desired her to be two entirely opposite human beings, the lovely, independent creature she was, followed by the eye of every male in her vicinity, and the mild, unremarkable, acquiescent person his first wife had been, unnoticed by any man unless he fell over her feet.

  ‘Don’t sulk,’ she said teasingly, smiling at him, trying to restore lightness to the atmosphere.

  He set his jaw. ‘I’m not sulking.’ He shifted in his chair and turned his eyes to the television set. The demon that had been sneaking up on him had him now by the throat, taking him as usual totally by surprise. When Muriel was alive he had never known the meaning of jealousy. He had been unable to comprehend such emotion, regarding it with contempt as a childish weakness carried over into adult life.

  And now, painfully and humiliatingly, scarcely a day passed without at some time plunging him into the same dark pit. When the black mood was on him he was powerless to resist its obsessional broodings. Every word and glance of Ruth’s seemed to carry a second meaning beneath the innocent overlay. Sometimes the misery would mercifully last only a few minutes, sometimes it persisted for two or three days, vanishing always apparently of its own accord, like sunlight piercing a storm-cloud.

  And all the time some rational observer in his brain would be saying, ‘You could throw all this off in a single moment, now and forever, you could just let go, relax, love her, you could be ecstatically happy.’ He would struggle to obey, to force himself up from the pit, he would almost succeed. And then memory would stab at him again; he would recall the tone of her voice, the casual way she had greeted him or the warmth of some remark she had let fall about a male colleague. He would slip back at once into a despair that held a kind of resentful triumph. You see! he would cry out silently from the pit, she doesn’t love me! I mean nothing to her! Has she not just proved it?

  Oh lord! Ruth thought now, seeing the way he hunched his shoulders, here we go again! It was possible that he fancied these ridiculous displays might precipitate her into rushing across the room to fling her arms round his neck in wild penitence at some imaginary offence, beg his pardon, receive his forgiving kisses, dab away her tears. And probably fetch his slippers into the bargain like a well-trained dog, she added to herself with a twitch of her lips. Whereas in reality what she felt prompted to do was stride over and punch him on the jaw.

  She’s actually smiling! Neil thought with savage anger, having briefly turned his head to note her expression. She’s laughing at my torments! Enjoying herself! He leaned forward and frowned with fierce concentration at the screen.

  Ruth sprang to her feet. ‘I’ll go and dish up,’ she said lightly. ‘I’ll put Jane’s supper in the oven to keep warm. Come along when you hear me shout.’ Don’t come if you don’t want to, she added to herself. Congealed risotto will probably suit your state of mind.

  As she went into the hall the front door burst open and Jane came in, blowing an icy breath of air in with her.

  ‘Oh, hello!’ Ruth said, smiling at her step-daughter. ‘You’re just in time, I am about to present the turkey’s last goodbye.’

  Jane didn’t smile back. Her eyes didn’t quite meet Ruth’s. ‘I’m going out again as soon as I’ve eaten and changed.’ She addres
sed her words to a point a few inches to one side of Ruth’s face. Ruth took a fractional step sideways, playing a little game she had evolved over the last ten months, trying to shift herself swiftly and unobtrusively into a position in which their glances would inescapably interlock. But Jane was as always just a little too quick for her.

  ‘There’s a party on. One of the girls from the library. It should be quite decent.’

  Not that she always evaded Ruth’s gaze or treated her with this show of cool detachment. She was quite often spontaneous and open, even friendly. It was simply that she was only seventeen and hadn’t yet been able to accept this beautiful stranger in the place of her very ordinary and beloved mother.

  Ruth didn’t usually mind her withdrawals though there were times, such as the present moment, when it would be pleasant to be able to speak to at least one person in the house and be certain of a normal response. She’d been prepared for difficulties with a step-daughter and she liked the girl, welcomed any little advances she made and was quite happy to wait for time to do its work.

  ‘Anyone special at the party?’ she asked lightly.

  Jane’s face remained closed. ‘No, just the usual gang.’ She turned to go upstairs. She hadn’t forgotten the time a couple of months back when she’d brought a rather promising youth in for a cup of coffee after the theatre and the wretched lad had sat and gawped at Ruth with goggling eyes for the best part of an hour. Until Jane had smartly kicked his shin when no one was looking, unsubtly indicating that his time was up, he’d better take himself off. She hadn’t clapped eyes on him again and she had no wish to do so.

  She frowned as she went slowly into her bedroom. It was going to be rather a problem. Any boy she really fancied would have to be brought home in the end, would slide his eyes from her own perfectly wholesome and reasonably pretty face to the quite staggering countenance of her stepmother.

  She jerked open the wardrobe door and ran an impatient hand along the rail, considering the merits of various dresses.

  It was horribly unfair. All the other girls she knew had plump and unassuming mothers or mothers who were bony and scraggy rather than slimly rounded. Mothers with frankly greying hair or corrugated waves touched into improbable tints by the heavy hands of provincial hairdressers. Not huge masses of the most wonderful pale gold, thick and shining.

  She pulled out a newish dress, a sort of orangey-brown, carried it over to the dressing table and held it up against herself. M’m, not bad. It made her somewhat indeterminate colouring look more interesting, brought out coppery lights in her hair, emphasized the delicacy of her skin. Creamy, she decided, my skin looks creamy. The word pleased her, she began to feel a little more cheerful.

  She threw the dress on the bed and bounced along to the bathroom. Perhaps she could run away and get married when the time came, make sure the bridegroom never set eyes on Ruth till he was safely bound hand and foot. She ran the taps and splashed about quite gaily, humming a tune and looking forward to the evening.

  And then it struck her that the stupid loon–her imaginary new husband that is, a creature she was by now beginning to be heartily sick of–might go and fall in love with Ruth after they were married. That would be a fine how-d’ye-do. She groped about for a towel, gritting her teeth in exasperation.

  Either she was going to have to keep away from Milbourne for the whole of her married life or she was doomed to remain a spinster. She let out a long sigh. I suppose I could emigrate, she thought hopelessly, searching for the toothpaste. Canada or Australia.

  She saw herself tilling the soil in some primitive station in the outback. Dressed in a washed-out cotton frock, her hair faded by relentless suns. Her man–for the stupid loon now reappeared as an earthy, monosyllabic hulk–hacking down mighty trees for some obscure purpose of his own.

  ‘Supper’s ready!’ Ruth’s cheerful voice from the hall.

  Jane picked up the towel from the floor, realizing suddenly that she was extremely hungry. She stuck her head out of the door and yelled, ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’

  Actually Ruth wasn’t so bad; she was obviously trying to be kind and helpful. And there was nothing so very wrong with her own looks. Only the other day one of the girls at the library–and they were a highly critical bunch, heaven only knew–had said she wished she had legs as long and slender as Jane’s.

  By the time she got back to her room she was singing again, very loudly.

  Downstairs in the hall Ruth stood looking fixedly at the door of the sitting room. No sound of movement from within. Neil hadn’t answered her summons. He was going to sit there then in front of the television set with unseeing eyes, until it was time for him to go off to The Sycamores. What a waste of time–when they could be so happy together. She clicked her tongue impatiently, then came to a decision and threw open the door.

  ‘Come on, Neil,’ she said coaxingly, regretting the necessity to treat a man ten years older than herself as if he were a toddler in a tantrum or someone a little soft in the head. ‘Come and eat your supper while it’s hot. It isn’t too bad. The turkey was a noble bird, we’ll speed his passing with a glass of wine.’

  Neil moved ever so slightly in his chair. ‘Please, Neil.’ A soothing, gentle tone, suitable for the elderly or ailing. ‘I put some peppers and mushrooms in the risotto, especially for you.’ Oh, do put a sock in it, she thought, beginning to run out of sweetness and light.

  He turned his head and looked at her. She closed her eyes for an instant in relief; any movement was a hopeful sign. She smiled at him, went over and sat on the arm of his chair, put a hand on his shoulder and gave a little squeeze.

  ‘I do love you, Neil. I wish you wouldn’t—’ Wiser perhaps not to finish the sentence.

  All at once he felt remarkably better. He leaned his head against her warm soft body. ‘I’m sorry, Ruth, it was all those bills.’

  As soon as he uttered the words he regretted them. In the ten months they had been married he had unswervingly maintained the position of being the open-handed head of the household, the true breadwinner. This had enabled him–most of the time–to feel in command of things, and allowed Ruth’s salary to be looked on as the little woman’s pin-money.

  In fact she earned now two-thirds of what he earned. And as he was only number two in the local housing department, the head of which was a vigorous man still under fifty, and Ruth–as a junior executive in a large firm of food processers with branches scattered throughout the country–could expect early and continuing promotion, there was a very good chance that in a few years she would be getting two or three times as much as Neil. To these hard facts he deliberately closed his mind.

  Unable altogether to credit his astounding good fortune in actually marrying this bird of paradise, uncertain that he would be able for very long to hold her, he had relied on money as his most powerful ally.

  An unnecessarily lavish honeymoon, the extravagant replacement of perfectly serviceable furnishings, presents of clothes, perfumes, jewellery, had put paid in quick time to what remained of his inheritance. He was either going to have to count pennies from now on, producing a rapid and inescapable alteration in his whole attitude towards his wife–and indeed, towards his image of himself–or he was going to have to find some more money. Rather a lot of money. A continuing supply of money. Or else a massive sum that would produce a hefty annual return.

  Ruth gave his shoulders another squeeze. ‘Is that all you’re worried about?’ she asked lightly. ‘I’ll help with the bills. Tell me how much you want.’ She was under the impression that they were talking about some minor difficulty, the need perhaps to sell some shares when the stock market was sluggish. She believed Neil was quite rich. He had given her every reason to believe it.

  ‘Oh, there’s no need for that,’ he said, managing a gay laugh. Once he started laying hands on her bank account, that would be the beginning of the end between them. She wouldn’t stand for it very long when she realized the true situation. And why shoul
d she? he asked himself with a sense of justice. Why on earth should a beautiful and intelligent young woman supply her husband with the cash to pay for her own Christmas present?

  ‘It’s perfectly all right, really.’ His tone easy and casual now. ‘It was just the way they all come in a bunch at this time of year.’ He put up a hand and gave a little yawn. ‘Makes them seem a lot bigger than they are.’ He felt a strong impulse to change the subject. ‘Well now, might as well see what this famous risotto’s like.’ Not that he was in the least hungry; the bills and the demon between them had destroyed what little appetite was left from the New Year feasting.

  She stood up and pulled him to his feet.

  ‘Don’t stay too long at Zena’s, will you?’ She smiled up at him. ‘Then we can have an early night.’

  ‘If you go now,’ Zena said, glancing at the clock, ‘you’ll be in good time. He’ll still be at the club.’ Anger took hold of her again at the notion of Owen taking decisions behind her back, slipping away from her, escaping. Where? To what? There was an unpleasant sense of change in the air and she was at an age when all change seemed disturbing.

  Arnold remained seated. He often found when it came to the point that he was more relaxed with Zena than with anyone else. No need to be on guard with her, he thought with a trace of wry amusement, she knew all there was to be known about him. Or nearly all.

  ‘What am I supposed to do if he drives off somewhere in his car? I can hardly keep after him on foot.’ He hadn’t the remotest intention of taking part in such an insane procedure but there was no harm in appearing to fall in with her fantastic commands.

  Easy enough to string her along. All he had to do was report from time to time that he had dogged Owen’s footsteps–he almost laughed aloud at the ludicrously theatrical notion, typical of a woman who spent half her time lounging in bed–and that Owen’s behaviour was a model of innocence.