Chloe Marr Read online

  ‘She’ll be sorry too. Well, she’ll have to get somebody else. I’ll tell her how it was.’

  ‘And give her my love.’

  ‘I will.’

  Barnaby had been at Prossers for five years. He had intended to be an architect, had, in fact, been an architect; and, on the authority of the books of reference, was still an architect. But it is no good just sitting in an office and being an architect, unless there is a demand for your services by somebody willing to pay for them. There was no demand for Barnaby’s services. To while away the first four years of waiting he read the Encyclopaedia Britannica; to amuse himself in the last year he wrote a little book called How to be an Architect. The acceptance of the latter by Prossers (when the jokes had been taken out) introduced him to Stainer, and initiated the ‘Your Boy’ series. I. Your Boy as Architect by Barnaby Rush. It happened that Cardew’s monumental work in six volumes, Architecture Through the Ages, was just going through the press, and Barnaby, very much out of work in the sense that he had never been in it, offered to help with the proofs. The offer was gratefully accepted. Gradually it came to be understood in the office that Mr Rush had a valuable store, or what seemed so to the ignorant, of highly specialized knowledge on a variety of subjects. ‘Is Mr Rush in the office to-day?’ Stainer would say. ‘Then ask him. He might know.’ And so, from being in the Autumn List ‘Barnaby Rush, A.R.I.B.A., the well-known architect’, he became by the Spring the firm’s Mr Rush and General Editor of the ‘Your Boy’ series.

  Three years ago one of Prossers’ most distinguished and decorated authors had summoned Stainer to Berkshire for the week-end, to discuss what he described as a project of great importance in the world of science. Stainer, with no knowledge of what was or what wasn’t important in the world of science, and a tenderness for his own garden at week-ends, told Rush to go. Barnaby went.

  Chloe was there.

  (So of course was Ellen.)

  Chloe drove him back to London on the Sunday evening, mostly with one hand, and they had supper together. . . .

  That was three years ago. He was now thirty-five.

  2

  The Duke rang up on Monday. Ellen was quite equal to him.

  ‘Just a moment,’ she said, and then, mouthpiece to stomach, ‘The Duke of something.’ Chloe stretched out a hand for the telephone.

  ‘Hallo, Tommy. Good morning, and how are you? . . . Wimbledon? Yes, I should love to. What day? . . . Oh! Well, when will you be sure? . . . Oh, no, we must go one day. . . . All right, darling, ring me up to-morrow. Better make it seven, and then I’m sure to be in. No, I can’t promise, but I’ll keep both days free till then if I can. . . . Well, we can arrange that when we meet. Good-bye, darling.’

  She hung the receiver up and said, ‘The Duke of St. Ives.’

  ‘Cornwall or somewhere, isn’t it?’ said Ellen.

  ‘Let me have my book.’

  ‘You’ve got a fitting on Friday.’

  ‘I know.’ She opened the engagement-book and sat up in bed, tapping her teeth with a pencil. ‘I think you’d better ring up some time to-day and say that I may want to come on Thursday instead, and will that be all right. Oh, damn, no, I don’t want to do that, and I don’t suppose they’d be ready, anyhow. We might try early Saturday morning—when am I starting?’

  ‘Isn’t it in the book?’

  ‘I shouldn’t ask you if it were. Ring up Mr Walsh, and ask him what time he’s calling for me on Saturday, and then ring up— No, wait! No, don’t. Oh, hell, I can’t think. I didn’t sleep till six o’clock this morning, and then that damned man rang up at nine——’

  ‘Lord Sheppey again?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, Ellen, I’m so unhappy.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Miss Marr?’

  ‘Nothing. Everything. I’ll have my bath.’

  3

  Barnaby had spent the week-end in the country. He had been asked to stay until Tuesday, but there was no convenient train which would get him to London before eleven, when he had arranged to ring up Chloe. So he came back on Monday evening.

  At eleven o’clock on Tuesday he rang up Chloe, and got the engaged signal. All Chloe’s correspondence was conducted by telephone. It was initiated by her correspondents, and the engaged signal was part of the pattern of their daily lives. Barnaby heard it at intervals for the next three-quarters of an hour.

  At 11.45 a very sleepy voice said ‘Hallo!’ and then ‘Oh, it’s you’.

  ‘You sound as if you’d only just woken up,’ said Barnaby.

  ‘Well, I have. Couldn’t you have rung a little later? I didn’t get to sleep till six. What’s the time now?’

  ‘Quarter to twelve.’

  ‘Gracious, I must get up. Ellen!’ And then to Barnaby, ‘I thought you were going to ring at eleven.’

  ‘I did. You were engaged.’

  ‘Well, really, Barnaby, you might have tried again.’

  ‘I tried ten more times. You were very busy.’

  ‘I told you I was asleep. Oh, I remember now. I took the receiver off when I went to bed. People ring up at simply any time of the morning.’

  ‘I know. Sometimes even at the time they’ve arranged to.’

  ‘Ellen! Darling, I must get up now. Could you ring up in a quarter of an hour? Would you mind very much?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Till then, sweetie.’

  Barnaby had been going to Lord’s. Play had begun at eleven, and Hammond would have been batting. ‘Why the devil,’ he thought, ‘couldn’t we have arranged it all last Thursday; just as Dolly and I would have arranged it if we had been going to Wimbledon? Why all this perpetual ringing up?’

  He gave her twenty minutes. Ellen answered, and asked him to hold on, Miss Marr was just coming. She came five minutes later.

  ‘Hallo, sweetheart, how are you? I was in my bath.’

  ‘Are you out now, or going back again?’

  ‘Out. Aren’t we, Ellen? No, not those.’

  ‘Well,’ said Barnaby, ‘what about it?’

  ‘What about what, darling?’

  ‘Thursday.’

  ‘Oh! Oh, yes. I was just going to ring you up about that, wasn’t I, Ellen? Ducky, it might have to be Friday instead. Would you mind very much?’

  ‘When would you know for certain?’

  ‘To-morrow. It’s just that I may have to have a fitting on Thursday afternoon at three, and we were going to have the whole day, weren’t we? You did want to, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We could have lunch only on Thursday, or the whole day on Friday, whichever you liked, sweetie.’

  ‘Of course, I’d much rather have the whole day.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. So I’m trying to get the fitting postponed till Friday, and, if I can, then Thursday is our day, and if not, Friday. Is that all right, darling?’

  ‘Couldn’t we definitely say Friday now, and then it’s all fixed, and you needn’t bother about altering anything?’

  ‘Oh, darling, Friday’s such a long way off! Besides, I have already asked them—you rang up, didn’t you, Ellen? —and I thought you’d rather it was Thursday, because of the cricket. Will that be all right, darling?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ll let you know to-morrow. When will you ring up? Eleven?’

  ‘If you don’t leave the receiver off.’

  ‘Oh, darling, I’m sorry about that. I promise I won’t to-morrow, and I’ll be a good-tempered girl.’

  ‘All right, darling. Eleven o’clock.’

  ‘That will be lovely. How are you, darling?’

  ‘Oh, all right.’

  ‘What are you doing to-day?’

  ‘I thought of going to Lord’s.’

  ‘You’ll be late, won’t you?’

  Barnaby took a
deep breath, counted five, and said, ‘A little.’

  ‘Well, enjoy yourself, baby. And be sure to ring me up to-morrow. I simply must get dressed now. Good-bye, darling.’

  ‘Good-bye, darling,’ said Barnaby.

  He had meant to ring up Peter and suggest golf for to-morrow. Peter had a car, and would only play at Sunningdale. That meant starting at ten. Now he was tied to London until eleven. I am a damned fool, he thought. What do I get out of it? He went to Lord’s. There was loud applause as he came into the ground, and Hammond walked back to the pavilion.

  By 11.20 on Wednesday he was talking to Chloe again.

  ‘Oh, darling,’ she said, ‘I’m terribly sorry, but tomorrow’s no good. I’ve got this fitting at three——’

  ‘Couldn’t they alter it?’

  ‘No. That’s just it. They couldn’t.’

  ‘Never mind, darling. Friday will be just as good.’

  ‘Oh, ducky, I can’t on Friday! Friday I’m lunching with Tommy. Well, if you call it lunching, a drink and a nibble. We’ve got to be at Wimbledon by two. I thought it was Thursday you said. Didn’t you, Ellen? It was always Thursday, sweetie—I remember your saying——’

  ‘Yes, but you said yesterday when I rang you up——’

  ‘Just a moment.’ A murmured conversation. Then, ‘Sorry, darling, I had to sign for something. Darling, couldn’t we have a day next week— Oh, but I suppose your holiday will be over?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, well, let’s just have lunch to-morrow.’

  ‘Ellen! . . . Hold on a moment, darling.’ There was a long pause. ‘Are you there, sweetie? I was just looking at my book, seeing if we could manage just lunch, but I don’t think it would be very nice, darling. I’m having a hair-set in the morning, and I doubt if I should be out before quarter to two. And I see now my fitting is 2.30, so that gives us such a very little time. And I must go and see about some shoes, so I probably shan’t: have any lunch at all. Ellen! Darling, I simply must have my bath. What will you do to-morrow? Play golf or something? . . . I might give you a ring.’

  ‘I’m not sure. I may go into the country.’

  ‘Anybody I know, or by yourself?’

  ‘Just a moment.’ Barnaby was learning the technique. He put the receiver down, leant out of the window, and said ‘Damn you’ several times. He came back and said, “Sorry, darling, a man at the door. I simply must go now. I’ll ring you in a day or two, and we’ll arrange something for next week or the week after. If you feel like it. Good-bye.’

  As he had often told himself, she was the most treacherous, unfaithful, unscrupulous, egotistical liar in the whole world.

  He filled a pipe. He didn’t want to smoke, but he had to do something. Women (he thought) have an amazing reserve of stupidity. She promised to spend Thursday with me; yet, according to her own specially prepared story, with the whole library of truth and fiction to choose from, she tells me that, after making this promise, she deliberately arranged with a hairdresser to occupy her morning and a dressmaker to occupy her afternoon. Probably it’s a lie. Probably these things were all arranged for Friday, and now she wants to go to Wimbledon with Tommy on Thursday. (Who on earth is Tommy? Never heard of him before, and she always tells me.) And she doesn’t understand that it’s much more insulting to throw me over deliberately for a couple of tradesmen than to throw me over, in special circumstances, for another man. Of course she goes about with other men. Of course she’s fond of them. If Tommy is something new, then naturally she wants to accept his first invitation. Particularly to Wimbledon—who wouldn’t? If she had asked me, of course I would have changed the day. But how can she pretend to be fond of me in the very least, if she can destroy our only day, our only possible day together, for silly little things like hair-sets and dress-fittings? How much would she like it, with much less reason for taking it to heart, if I broke a date with her in order to get my hair cut, or buy a pair of trousers?

  What should he do now? Too late for golf. Go to Lord’s again, and play golf to-morrow? Lord’s was a good place to which to take an aching heart. The seats had a sort of comforting hardness, and the cricket played a melancholy accompaniment to one’s thoughts. Then, at some flashing stroke, some beautiful co-ordination of mind and body, one realized suddenly that women didn’t matter. It was a man’s world. Once, walking away from Twickenham after the most thrilling Rugger match of the year, Barnaby had come face to face with a poster of a lovely girl, as scantily dressed as the London County Council would permit, advertising a leg-show at some theatre. ‘You poor fool,’ he thought. ‘Who cares?’ But that was before he met Chloe.

  The telephone bell rang as he got to the door. He felt inclined to leave it, but it might be somebody suggesting golf, somebody who knew he wasn’t at the office. Cricket or golf, anything in the open air, and leave the women to their little puss-in-the-corner parlour games.

  ‘Hallo,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, darling, you’re still there. I was so afraid you would have gone out.’

  ‘Oh, hallo!’ (How nearly he had missed her!)

  ‘Sweetie, I’ve been thinking. Are you doing anything very special to-night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why don’t we have a lovely evening together? We always seem to have been lunching lately.’

  ‘Well, why don’t we?’

  ‘Well, let’s. Where shall we go? Oh, I know. What about the show at the Hippodrome, or would that bore you?’

  ‘No. Perfect.’

  ‘Or is there anywhere else you’d like?’

  ‘No. I’m all for the Hippodrome.’

  ‘Well, if you’d like it, darling, let’s go. And we could have supper afterwards, could we? Just: as you like, of course, darling——’

  ‘Good heavens, of course we will.’

  ‘And perhaps go on somewhere and dance. Would that be nice?’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Oh, darling, I am glad. And you’re not angry with me for inviting myself like this?’

  ‘Sweetheart I When shall I call for you?’

  ‘Well, let me think. I don’t think dinner, do you? Why don’t you come here at half-past seven, or just a second earlier, and we’ll have a drink and a crisp together.’

  ‘A drink and a what?’

  Chloe laughed.

  ‘No, darling, not what you think, just something to eat. A potato-crisp. Just lately they’ve come into my life in a big way.’ She laughed again. ‘I feel much happier now than I did ten minutes ago. Do you?’

  ‘Ever so much.’

  ‘Hooray!’

  ‘Hooray! How swell are you going to be?’

  ‘Oh, very. I’ve got a new dress specially for you, darling. I hope you won’t think it’s improper.’

  ‘I shall be very disappointed if I don’t.’

  A happy laugh, and ‘Oh, darling, I do like going out with vou.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Black tie for you, sweetie, because I love you like that.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Darling, I simply must have my bath.’

  ‘All right, ducky. Seven-twenty-five.’

  ‘Goody, goody, goody. What are you going to do now?’

  ‘Lord’s, I think.’

  ‘Enjoy yourself, sweetie. Give my love to both the umpires, and say I’m terribly happy because I’m going out with my best boy to-night. Will you promise to do that?’

  ‘I was going to, anyhow. I thought at the luncheon interval. Not interrupt the game.’

  ‘Just as you like, darling. Is Grace playing?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you told me. Well, give my love to Bradman. Is he playing?’

  ‘He’s in Australia.’

  ‘Well, send him a cable, and tell him I’m going out with my best boy to-night.’

  ‘I will
.’

  ‘What about Hobbs? Is he playing?’

  ‘He’s retired from the game.’

  ‘Nobody seems to be playing. It is eleven a side, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sweetheart, I’m playing and you’re playing, and what does it matter about any one else?’

  ‘Who said it did? Darling, I love you. At least, that’s what you think I said, but I shall deny it in Court. Anything I say to-night under the influence of drink cannot be used in evidence against me. I just adore you—or am I thinking of somebody else? Darling, I must have my bath. You keep on stopping me. You don’t seem to want me to be clean. Ellen! Good-bye, angel. Seven-thirty prompt.’

  ‘Seven twenty-five. Good-bye, my darling.’

  ‘Seven twenty-four. Bless you, ducky.’

  ‘Seven twenty-three. Good-bye, sweet.’

  ‘Going at seven twenty-three, going, going—good-bye, Mr Rush—gone!’

  But she wasn’t. The telephone-bell rang again while he was still thinking how sweet she was.

  ‘Hallo, darling! I find I have a moment to myself while Ellen looks for the soap. I know we had it last week, because I remember using it. What are you doing to-night? Anything interesting?’

  ‘Just staying quietly at home and reading The Wealth of Nations.’

  ‘Oh, is that good?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Is that the one where the girl thinks she’s in love with another man, but the other man is in love with another girl, so they don’t?’

  ‘You’re thinking of The Origin of Species.’

  ‘So I am. I think of it a lot. I think of nothing else.’

  ‘Darling, I meant to say before—what about orchids?’

  ‘Oh, you are sweet! But really, darling, I don’t quite see how there’d be room for them, I mean above the waist.’

  ‘Good. But you could wear them on your bag or your cloak——’

  ‘No, really not, sweetie. You’re too good to me as it is. Just yourself, please.’

  ‘All right, darling.’

  ‘I shall now leave you. Why don’t we have a nice talk on the telephone sometimes? Life is such a rush, Mr Rush. No sooner here than there. Good-bye, pet.’

  ‘Good-bye, Chloe sweet.’

  This time she was gone.