Wicked Pleasures (7 page)

‘Mother, for a woman who’s entertained
le tout
New York for thirty years you’re behaving very strangely,’ said Virginia, laughing. ‘I’ll tell you what would be nice, why don’t we ask Madeleine Dalgleish? She’s still here, and I’m sure she’d be pleased to come. And of course put him in a single room. Just don’t worry about it. I can almost hear Daddy saying it:
He’s only a friend of Virginia’s
.’

She was in an intensely emotional state, feverish with excitement, dizzy with love, fretful at Alexander’s lack of action. He talked and listened to her a great deal, he phoned her three times a day, he told her she was beautiful, that he loved being with her, he kissed her goodnight in an almost chaste way after seeing her home: but that was all. Virginia thought of all the boys and their fumbling fingers, their over-enthusiastic kisses, and looked back in wonder at her own icy responses; here she was, melting (literally, she sometimes felt), shaken with desire, aware of her body and its behaviour, its hungers, in a way she had never known, or dreamt of knowing, and no release, no answer to any of it. She was in despair; Alexander obviously saw her as a kind, sympathetic sister, or friend; probably he had some nobly born creature at home, waiting for him, and he was simply passing the time with her. She wondered if he realized how very much she wanted him, adored him: please God he didn’t. That would be utter, total humiliation. That would be dreadful.

She withdrew from him slightly towards the end of that last week, eager to
appear cool, disinterested; she could sense his puzzlement, his desire to engage her attention again, and it pleased and soothed her. But she had decided that if nothing happened over this weekend, if he didn’t do or say something that indicated he regarded her in some way other than as an agreeable, albeit close, friend she would have to put him and her passion for him aside; she would die rather than appear to be chasing after him.

He arrived on Saturday morning; they had a long, boozy lunch in the garden, and then went walking on the South Shore. Alexander took her hand, raised it to his lips and kissed it; Virginia had to restrain herself by an act of sheer physical will from hurling herself into his arms.

‘This is a lovely, lovely place,’ he said. ‘And your parents’ house is beautiful. I love it.’

‘It can hardly compare with Hartest, surely,’ said Virginia.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s different. It’s like comparing you with – well, with the Queen of England.’

‘Thanks,’ said Virginia, laughing.

‘No, it’s not such a silly comparison. She’s regal and important and immensely steeped in tradition. Like Hartest. You’re young and lovely and unfettered and free. Like this place. I love you both.’

‘Me and Queen Elizabeth?’

‘No, you and this beach.’

‘Shore.’

‘Sorry. Shore.’

‘Did you ever meet the Queen?’

‘Oh yes,’ he said carelessly, ‘several times. I wouldn’t count her among my intimate friends. But yes, I have met her. At functions. The Derby once.’

‘You must,’ said Virginia, her eyes dancing, ‘tell my mother.’

‘Alexander has met the Queen,’ she announced at dinner.

Betsey had just taken a mouthful of chicken; she choked.

‘Queen Elizabeth?’ she said, a glass of water and a great deal of back-thumping later.

‘Both of them.’

‘Both?’

‘Both. The current one and her mum.’

‘And – and – what – well, how –’ Betsey was silenced, scarlet with awe.

‘What she means is,’ said Fred III mildly, ‘what is she like? Does she breathe in the normal way, walk by putting one foot in front of another, chew her food, go to the bathroom, that kind of thing.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Fred,’ said Betsey. ‘You’re making me sound like an American.’

‘Funny, I thought you were one.’

‘Not only Americans ask those questions,’ said Alexander, smiling. ‘The English are equally fascinated by her. Whenever I tell anyone I’ve met her I get bombarded by questions. She’s very nice. Much prettier than she looks in her
pictures. A bit shy. Maybe a bit bossy. But then I suppose she would be. It’s her mother I really like. She’s a wonderful old bird. A bit vulgar, but wonderful.’

Virginia could see Betsey shaping up to ask how a queen could possibly be vulgar and looked across the table at Madeleine. ‘Mrs Dalgleish, how do you feel about a game after dinner? Shall we have a Scrabble match, England versus the United States? I warn you, I was Scrabble champion at Wellesley,’ she added to Alexander.

‘You never beat me and Baby, though,’ said Fred.

‘Baby cheats. He makes up words.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Fred. He scowled at her. Betsey turned quickly to Alexander.

‘Do they play Scrabble in your country?’ she said.

‘They do,’ said Alexander, ‘I don’t.’

‘Oh,’ said Betsey, confused.

‘I’m quite quite hopeless at any kind of board game. Especially Scrabble. But I’d love to watch you. Really.’

‘Oh no,’ said Virginia. ‘No of course not. Is there anything you’d rather do?’ He fixed his dark blue, intense eyes on hers. There was an odd expression in them that she couldn’t read; she looked away.

‘I’m sorry to be a party pooper,’ he said, ‘but I honestly think that I shan’t be good for much. I was working until three this morning, and that walk this afternoon, and this marvellous claret has made me rather sleepy. I’m so sorry …’

He went upstairs to bed at ten thirty; they all assured him they were tired too, and were delighted to have an early night. Fred waited until he heard the door shut and then said what a pity Baby hadn’t been there, to make the evening go. Virginia, who had allowed herself to fantasize that Alexander might have been planning to get everyone into bed early, so that he could come and find her when they were all asleep, waited staring into the darkness for over an hour and a half and then cried herself to sleep.

Baby and Mary Rose arrived next day at lunchtime, late, and clearly in foul tempers. Betsey was tense, she had insisted on a formal four courses in the dining room, rather than a light lunch on the porch, and everyone pushed most of the food around their plates and returned it uneaten. Fred III was irritable because his golf game had gone badly; Madeleine Dalgleish had gone for a walk in the morning, got back late and was still flustered; Baby was morose; Mary Rose sat next to Alexander and flirted with him until Virginia thought she really might be sick; and Virginia herself was awkward, afraid to say anything in case it sounded crass or – worse – a piece of competing flirtation.

After lunch they all went and snoozed on the porch; Fred, miraculously restored, woke them all at four and said who was going to walk. ‘I will,’ said Alexander. ‘I’d like that very much.’

‘Good. Virgy baby, are you coming?’

‘No,’ said Virginia, closing her eyes again. She had an appalling headache.

They got back an hour later, beaming.

‘That was great,’ said Fred III happily. ‘Nothing like a walk. And you know what, Virginia? Alexander here has a real passion for Busby Berkeley movies. Well, why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I didn’t know,’ said Virginia, feeling foolish. Her headache was no better. ‘I told him we’d do “The Tops” for him. Go and get your tap shoes, honey. Baby, come on, to the piano.’

‘Oh Dad, I can’t.’

‘Course you can. Come on.’

Baby got up good-naturedly and stumbled sleepily towards the house. ‘Come on, Sis. Keep the old man happy.’

‘No,’ said Virginia. ‘No, honestly. I just don’t feel like it. Alexander doesn’t want to see me dancing. And don’t call me Sis. You know I hate it.’

‘Oh, I’d love to see you dance,’ said Alexander, smiling at her. ‘Really. Please, Virginia. It sounds as if it would be wonderful.’

‘It isn’t,’ she said, getting up reluctantly, seeing that giving in was easier than resisting. ‘But all right.’

She got through it. She felt stupid, ridiculous even, but she got through it. Baby played carefully, following her, seeing she was nervous; Fred III was in great form. Afterwards Alexander clapped and said, ‘That was wonderful. You have a real talent,’ and she felt sillier still. She was just bending down to undo her tap shoes when she saw Mary Rose lean towards him and whisper something in his ear. He smiled at her. Virginia froze, locked in a dreadful misery and jealousy. Babe gave her a gentle shove. ‘Go on, Blessed. Move.’

‘Don’t call me that,’ said Virginia furiously.

‘What did you call her?’ asked Mary Rose, intrigued.

‘Blessed,’ said Baby, who was still drunk from lunch. ‘With two syllables, as you can hear. It was a nickname from college, wasn’t it, darling?’

‘Baby, please shut up,’ said Virginia. ‘Please.’

‘How intriguing,’ said Mary Rose. ‘What did it mean?’

‘Oh, it was short for –’

‘Baby, please –’

‘The Blessed Virginia.’

‘Sounds all right to me,’ said Alexander politely.

‘No, that’s not all of it. The Blessed Virginia, our Lady of Tomorrows. It was a reference to Virginia’s extremely virginal state. At the time. She was famous for it. Of course nobody knows if –’

‘Baby!’ said Fred sharply. ‘That will do. Virginia, go and find Beaumont and ask him to bring in some drinks –’

But Virginia was gone. Flying out of the room, across the hall, up the stairs, hot, ashamed, blinded with tears, her humiliation total. She ran into her room, slammed the door, locked it, threw herself on her bed. Some great wave of hurt had caught in her throat, she couldn’t even cry. She just lay there, hurting, mortified, not knowing what to do. After what seemed like hours there was a knock at the door.

‘Virginia. It’s Baby. I’m sorry. Please let me in.’

‘No,’ said Virginia. ‘No. Go away.’

More silence. Baby’s footfalls receding. Then different ones, slower, more tentative. A gentle knock.

‘Virginia. It’s Alexander. Please open the door.’

‘No.’

‘Then I shall stay outside until nature drives you out.’

She lay for a moment, thinking. Then, half smiling blotchily, half shamefaced, she went to the door.

‘You’d have had a long wait. I have my own bathroom.’

‘Can I come in?’

‘I suppose so.’

He put his arm round her, walked her to the bed. She sat down heavily and he sat down beside her.

‘I don’t see why you’re quite so upset. It didn’t seem such a bad nickname to me. Rather sweet in fact. You should have heard some of mine.’

‘Oh,’ she said, smiling shakily again, ‘you and your childhood.’

‘Yes, well you know what I think about yours.’

‘It wasn’t just the name. It was – well, everything. Having to dance for you. Baby winning as usual. Vile Mary Rose.’

‘Vile?’

‘Vile. She always puts me down. She hates me.’

‘She seems all right to me. A little icy perhaps.’

‘Oh well. I can see you like her.’

‘Not particularly. The people I like best in your family are your mother and you.’

‘Oh,’ she said dully.

‘You’re not so – well, so sure of yourselves.’

‘Oh.’ There was a silence. Virginia wondered if this was the nearest she was going to get to a declaration of love. Probably.

He suddenly turned her to face him, looked into her eyes.

‘Are you still a virgin?’ he said.

Virginia was stunned, literally deprived of breath. She stared at him. ‘Why?’

‘I’d like to know.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’m sorry. It’s a very personal question.’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes it’s a personal question, or yes you are?’

‘Both.’

‘I thought you were,’ he said. ‘Look – there’s no real connection. But will you marry me?’

Virginia, 1960

They were to be married the following April in New York. Betsey and Fred begged and pleaded with her to have the reception on Long Island, but Virginia refused. She didn’t explain why: that the wedding, however careful she was, would seem like a carbon copy of Baby’s to Mary Rose. If it had been possible, she would have married quietly in a register office, or run away to England, but Alexander said countesses had proper weddings, with their parents’ blessing. He appeared not to fully appreciate the oddness of his own mother’s missing the ceremony.

Alexander was a wonderfully attentive and considerate fiancé: he insisted on speaking to her father, on their talking to her mother together; he went along with Betsey’s insistence on an engagement party, flying back to New York after a brief trip home to see to matters there; he was charming to all the endless Praeger relatives; he took her to Van Cleef and Arpel’s to choose a ring (‘nothing flashy,’ she said, ‘nothing like Mary Rose’s,’ and the result was tiny rings of diamonds round tinier ones of ruby, and then still smaller ones of sapphire, specially commissioned to her rather rambling description), he went along with all Fred and Betsey’s suggestions for the wedding (service at St John the Divine, luncheon for four hundred at East 80th, the conservatory extended by a marquee).

Alexander’s contribution to the guest list was modest: immediate family none (he was an only child, his father dead, his mother, he explained carefully, eccentric, rather frail and virtually a recluse); he invited an ancient maiden aunt, his widowed godfather and two dozen close friends with their husbands or wives. ‘It’s either that, or we charter a jumbo jet and bring the whole of England,’ he explained to Virginia. ‘I am planning a huge party when we get home, two actually, one in London, one at Hartest to introduce you to everybody, and we shall have to have a jamboree for everyone on the estate as well. Much better to wait.’