Harriet

Chapter One

It started to snow as Harriet was writing the last paragraph. Looking up she saw the flakes tumbling out of a sullen, pewter-grey sky, swirling and chasing each other, drifting into the branched arms of the trees. With a yelp of excitement she put down her pen and ran to the window. The flakes were small and compact. It was going to settle. Now they were belting down, and suddenly the towers of Oxford were encapsulated in a flurry of white flakes, as though someone had violently shaken a snow scene in a glass ball.

She went back to her essay, copying out the last two sentences with a flourish, then she wrote her name at the top of the first page: Harriet Poole, carefully closing up the Os, because she’d read somewhere that it was a sign of weak character to leave them open.

She had got up at six to finish her essay, having spent all week re-writing it. Anything to avoid the humiliation of last week’s tutorial. Her tutor, Theo Dutton, who chain-smoked and showed no mercy, was famous for his blistering invective. When she had finished reading out last week’s essay he had asked her three questions which entirely exposed the shallowness of her argument, then, tearing up the pages with long nicotined fingers, had dropped them disdainfully into the waste paper basket.

‘That was junk,’ he had said in his dry, precise voice, ‘you merely copied out other people’s ideas with varying degrees of accuracy. Read Shakespeare rather than books about Shakespeare. Look into your heart and write. You’re trying too hard; relax; enjoy what you read or dislike it, but don’t deaden it on paper.’

Her eyes had filled with tears. She had worked very hard. ‘You’re too sensitive, Harriet,’ he had said, ‘we’ll have to raise your threshold of pain, won’t we? A large dose of bullying each week until you build up an immunity.’

His hard, yellow eyes gleamed through his spectacles. He was smiling, but she wasn’t sure if he was fooling or not. He always made her feel faintly sexy, but uneasy at the same time.

‘Now,’ he had said briskly, ‘for next week, write an essay on which of Shakespeare’s characters would be best in bed and why.’

Harriet flushed scarlet.

‘But I can’t. .’ she began, then bit her lip.

‘Can’t write from experience? Use your imagination then. Shakespeare didn’t know what it was like to be a black general or a Danish prince, did he?’

‘Hamlet wouldn’t have been much good,’ said Harriet. ‘He’d have talked too much, and never made up his mind to, until it was too late and one had gone off the boil.’

Theo had given a bark of laughter.

‘That’s more like it. Write something I might enjoy reading.’

Well, there was her essay, and it had taken her all week. She had read nothing but Shakespeare, and thought about nothing but sex. And she felt light-headed from exhaustion, a sense of achievement and the snow outside.

She was also starving. No-one was up. The landlady and her husband liked to lie in on Saturday. Downstairs among the letters scattered on the floor lay one from her boyfriend, Geoffrey. Reading it, she wandered into the kitchen, her jeans, too long when she wasn’t wearing heels, swishing on the linoleum.

‘Dear Harriet,’ wrote Geoffrey, on office writing paper, ‘I am really fed up. I can’t get down this weekend, but I must finish this report and hand it in to the MD on Monday.’

Then followed a lot of waffle about pressure of work, grabbing every opportunity in the present economic climate, and doing it for both their sakes.

‘So pleased you have finally gone on the pill,’ he ended up. (Harriet had a vision of herself poised like a ballerina on a tiny capsule.) ‘I’m so fed up with being parked outside your bedroom every night like flowers in a hospital. I want you so much darling, I know I can make you happy. I’ll be down next weekend, early Friday night. Meanwhile keep yourself on ice. Hugs and kisses and other things, love Geoffrey.’

Harriet felt a great wave of relief, then felt guilty. One really shouldn’t contemplate losing one’s virginity to someone one felt relieved one wasn’t going to see. Virginity should be lost gloriously. Geoffrey wasn’t glorious, just solid and very, very persistent.

Now that he wasn’t coming down, she could lapse a bit, and not bother about dieting until Monday. She opened a tin of baked beans and put a slice of toast under the grill. After her tutorial with Theo, she could go to the library and get out a couple of trashy novels — she deserved a break after all that Shakespeare — and later go to the new Robert Redford film, and see it round twice, and eat a whole bar of Crunchie, and perhaps an ice-cream too. The weekend stretched out like the snow beginning to cover the lawn.

After eating every baked bean she felt fat, and decided to wash her hair in Theo Dutton’s honour. There was no shower in the bathroom. It was either a question of scalding your head under the hot tap or freezing under the cold, which was much colder because of the snow.

As she alternately froze and scalded she pondered once more the problem of her virginity. All her friends were sleeping with their boyfriends, and she suspected that if she’d really fancied Geoffrey she’d have succumbed to him months ago. If Robert Redford, for example, came to Oxford in a play and bumped into her outside the theatre or met her at a party, she’d be his in a trice. She was conscious of so much love welling up inside her. If only she were beautiful and not so shy, she might attract some beautiful man to give it to. She couldn’t be bothered putting conditioner on her hair after she’d washed it. Theo wasn’t that attractive.

Dripping, she went into her room. Her papers and books were scattered all over the floor. She wished she were one of those people who could transform a room into a home with a few feminine touches. But she loved her room, messy as it was, and even if she didn’t have a great love in her life, the days at Oxford had their own happiness. Theo Dutton, when he wasn’t being vile, calling her his star pupil to another don who’d dropped in to borrow a book, a muddled feeling she had of the importance of intellectual things, music, writing books herself, being reviewed one dizzy day in the Times Literary Supplement, ‘Miss Harriet Poole in her first novel shows sensitivity and remarkable maturity.’

The snow was covering the lawn and the red roofs now. Two children, shrieking with delight, were scraping it off the top of a car to make a snowball. On the ledge of the window lay a moth. Harriet picked it up — she had read somewhere that human hands burnt insects’ feet like hot coals. It was too cold to put it outside. Running out of the room, she parked it gently in her landlady’s maidenhair fern on the landing. At least it would have something to eat. She spent so much time worrying about dogs being put out on the motorway, and horses being sent to the slaughter house, and children in orphanages. What on earth was she going to do when something really terrible happened to her — like one of her parents dying?

The snow had now nearly hidden a cluster of snowdrops that had courageously sprung out of the dark earth. Snow on snow, thought Harriet; perhaps she should write a poem about it. Crouching in front of the gas fire she got out a pen and began to scribble.

An hour later her hair was dry and she realized she was going to be late. She pulled on a red sweater because it brought some colour to her sallow cheeks, red tights and a grey skirt, which bagged slightly. She must get some new clothes, but her grant never went far enough.

She tried on a belt, then took it off because it emphasized her spare tyre. She really shouldn’t have eaten all those baked beans; perhaps it was being on the pill for a week that made her feel so fat. The red tights had a ladder, but her black boots covered that. Her duffle coat had two buttons missing. The snow, like life, had caught her on the hop.

Aware that she might want to brood over Geoffrey’s letter later, she put it with her essay in a blue folder. Outside the house, she caught her breath as the frozen wind cut through her like a knife. Her bicycle, its red paint peeling, lay against the ivied wall. The snow, now four inches deep, turned yellow where a dog had lifted its leg on her front wheel.

As she pedalled past the park snow was settling in the dead leaves and hollows of the chestnut trees. In the churchyard the stone angels had white mobcaps on their heads. The frozen puddles didn’t crack beneath her bicycle wheels. As she headed towards the Banbury Road, the snow stepped up the pace, exploding over her in rockets, filling up her spectacles, blinding her.

Grimly battling on, she thought about Geoffrey’s letter. So pleased you’re finally on the pill. Oh dear, but that was next week. Who knew but the world might end tonight? She turned a corner. Suddenly a dark blue car came out of a side road, swerved frantically, made a dizzy glide across the road, caught the wheel of her bicycle, and the next moment she was flying through the air on to the grass verge, her glasses knocked off, her possessions flying. The car skidded to a halt. The driver jumped out. He had dark gold hair, and his face was as white as the snow.

‘Christ I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should have looked. Are you OK?’

Harriet sat on the verge, trembling and wondering if she was. The base of her spine felt agonizingly jolted. Her skirt was rucked up; her long red-stockinged legs in their black boots sprawled out like a colt; dark hair tumbled over her face.

‘I’m all right,’ she gasped. ‘It was my fault. I should have rubbed the snow off my glasses. I couldn’t see where I was going. I’m most terribly sorry.’

The words came out in a rush. Often, when she spoke, she had to hang on to a word to steady herself.

‘No-one usually comes down this road,’ he said.

‘It’s a short cut. I was going to a tutorial. Oh God, where are my glasses?’

‘Here they are.’ He picked them up and polished them for her. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? You’ve gone awfully white. Can you walk?’

He took her hands and pulled her gently to her feet, and, when she swayed slightly, put his arm round her. Harriet put on her spectacles and, looking at him, suddenly realized it was Simon Villiers and blushed scarlet.

‘Where’s my essay?’ she muttered.

He retrieved it from a hollow in the verge.

‘Pity you had it in a folder! The ink would have run in the snow. Been a marvellous excuse not to hand it in. Look, I really think I’d better take you to hospital.’

‘I’m all right. I must go to my tutorial.’

Simon looked at her buckled bicycle. ‘Well you won’t get there on that,’ he said ruefully. ‘I’ll get the garage to come and pick it up.’

There were flakes of snow gathering in his blond hair.

‘What you need is a slug of brandy. I’ve got some in my digs. Come back, and I’ll ring up and say you’re ill.’

He helped her into his car.

‘You don’t have to bother, really you don’t.’

‘Shut up,’ he said gently. ‘Women are always being silly about inessentials.’

Inside the car he lit a cigarette and gave it to her. Harriet thought this was such a smooth gesture, she hadn’t the heart to tell him she hardly smoked. The cigarette was very strong and made her cough. The heat was turned up overpoweringly, so was the wireless.

‘Do you really have to go to this tutorial?’ he asked, when he’d finally got the car out of the snow.

She nodded.

‘Where is it?’

‘Hallerton Street, № 44.’

‘Theo Dutton?’

‘You know him?’

‘He tutored me my first year, until he realized I was past redemption. Not surprised he snapped you up; he always corners the pretty ones.’

He sat lazily beside her, driving with one hand. He was wearing dark grey trousers, a black shirt, and a pale blue velvet coat like Peter Rabbit. His eyes ran over her in an amused, speculative, slightly condescending way.

‘I wish you’d take your glasses off again,’ he said. ‘Your eyes are far too sexy to be hidden. I must say it’s a most unorthodox way to meet, but I’m very glad we have. What college are you at?’

‘St Hilda’s.’

She noticed he didn’t introduce himself. He assumed rightly that everyone knew who he was.

‘Why haven’t we met before?’

‘I’ve been working.’

‘Theo keeping you to the grindstone?’

The car skidded slightly. Harriet jumped out of her skin. Simon laughed.

‘Better keep my eyes on the road. Mind if I stop for petrol?’

As he got out to speak to the petrol pump attendant, Harriet surreptitiously turned the driving mirror and had a look at herself. Not too bad; thank God she’d washed her hair.

She couldn’t believe it. Simon Villiers picking her up. She stole a quick glance at him, marvelling at the blond hair falling on the collar, the delicate aquiline features, the slightly cruel, beautifully shaped mouth, and tawny complexion without any trace of pink in it. Most amazing of all were his eyes, sleepy, and bluey-green with the dark lashes so thick and close together that they gave the illusion he was wearing eye-liner.

She was so dazed she forgot to put the mirror back and Simon nearly backed into a passing car.

‘This journey’s becoming pure Marx Brothers,’ he said, replacing the mirror.

She didn’t look at him, feeling that beastly blush staining her cheeks again.

‘Come and have a drink after your tutorial.’

‘Oh I don’t. . I mean you don’t have. .’

‘There’ll be other people there,’ he said.

Oh God, she knew what they’d be like, models and actresses down from London. He read her thoughts.

‘No-one very alarming. I’ll look after you. Please,’ his voice dropped, caressing and husky, ‘let me make some reparation for nearly killing you.’

They drew up outside Theo’s house.

‘You’ll come.’

‘Yes, I’d like to.’

‘Don’t mention me to Theo. He’ll give me a lousy press.’

As he drove off in a flurry of snow, she realized once again that he’d automatically assumed she knew where he lived.

Chapter Two

As she walked up the snowy path, her feet made no sound. The wonderful softening of the snow gave her a feeling of great irresponsibility, as though her reactions were blurred by alcohol. Hoods of white lay over the yew trees and turned the lavender bushes into white hedgehogs. Snakes of snow lay on the branches of the monkey puzzle.

Her brain was reeling, that she should have met Simon Villiers in this way. Ever since she’d seen him playing Brick in the OUDS production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, she’d known moments of exquisite unfaithfulness to Robert Redford. She knew Simon was a playboy with buckets of money and a frightful reputation. She knew that even her friends at St Hilda’s, who happily slept with their boyfriends, still disapproved strongly of the Villiers Set. Harriet pretended to disapprove too, but she was secretly excited by their double-barrelled names, their fast cars, their frequent appearances in the gossip column, their ability to get chucked out of smart restaurants, their reputation for sexual ambiguity, and drugging and drinking.

‘The downward path is easy, but there’s no turning back,’ she muttered to herself as she pulled the doorbell. Theo Dutton’s children fell on her.

‘Hullo, Harriet. Harry ate a lamb for breakfast. It’s a joke: Harriet a lamb for breakfast.’

‘I’ve heard it before,’ said Harriet.

‘What time is it when an elephant sits on your fence?’ said the eldest.

‘I don’t know,’ said Harriet.

‘Time to get a new fence,’ the children exploded with laughter.

She often babysat when the Duttons went out.

‘We’ve made a snowman in the garden. Come and look at it. What does it remind you of?’

‘It looks like your father,’ said Harriet.

‘Waiting for the BBC to ring,’ said the youngest.

Harriet giggled.

‘Isn’t the snow lovely?’ she said.

‘Will you take us tobogganing this afternoon? Daddy’s working on a broadcast, which means he’ll go to sleep.’

‘And Mummy’s got a cold.’

Three expectant faces gazed at her.

Euphoria at meeting Simon overwhelmed her.

‘All right. I’ll come and pick you up at 2.30,’ she said.

‘This is much better,’ said Theo Dutton, lighting another cigarette.

Harriet watched the snow thickening on the roof opposite.

‘The style leaves a lot to be desired. I want to shake it and plump it up like a pillow, but your ideas are good. You’ve used your imagination.’

His shrewd, yellow eyes gleamed at her behind his spectacles. He tugged at his beard.

‘You’re very abstracted today,’ he said. ‘Someone’s switched a light on inside you. What’s happened? Boyfriend not coming down?’

Harriet laughed.

‘Lack of sleep — and I just love the snow. I’m sorry if I seem a bit dopey. I got knocked off my bicycle on the way here. I didn’t get hurt but it shook me a bit.’

She hoped she wouldn’t be too terrified of the people in Simon’s flat. She ought to go home and change into something better, but into what?

Theo looked at her speculatively, admiring the full breasts, the puppy plumpness, the long slim legs, the huge grey eyes with their heavy lids. One didn’t normally realize the beauty of them hidden behind glasses. She was terribly shy, but through the shyness one could feel the vitality. She’ll fall like a ripe plum any minute, he thought, with all the wistfulness of the happily married. There was nothing like a young, full-blooded girl suddenly introduced to the pleasure of the bed.

He sighed. Harriet wondered if she ought to rush out and blow the last of her month’s allowance on a new sweater. It would do her good not to eat for a fortnight.

‘This week,’ said Theo Dutton, ‘we’ll look at the sonnets. “With this Key,” said Wordsworth, “Shakespeare unlocked his heart.” When my mistress walks, she treads on the ground, and don’t forget it.’

At a quarter to twelve he got out the sherry bottle.

‘There are two kinds of sherry in Oxford: one you cook with, the other you use for drinking. Usually the two get muddled, but not in my house. I think after this, you’d better go back to bed — alone.’

He poured the sherry into smeared glasses.

‘I promised to take your children tobogganing,’ said Harriet.

She came out of Theo’s house to find a long, dark green car waiting for her. A man got out; he was smoking a cigarette and had auburn hair and the wild careering good looks of a red setter. Harriet recognized him immediately as one of Simon’s cronies, Mark Macaulay.

‘Simon sent me to fetch you,’ he said. ‘He thought you might get cold feet; as if anyone could get anything else in this bloody weather. Are you all right?’ he added, as she got into the car. ‘Simon said he sent you for six.’

Physically and mentally, thought Harriet.

‘I’m a bit sore at the bottom of my spine,’ she said.

‘Your coccyx,’ said Mark and laughed rather wildly. He already seemed a bit high.

‘Are there lots of people there?’ she said.

‘About a couple of dozen, including one or two predatory ladies who won’t be at all pleased that you’ve appeared on the scene.’

He shot her a sideways glance and laughed again.

Harriet felt nervous and excited at the same time.

‘Do you think I ought to go?’

‘It’s more than my life’s worth if you don’t. Not that it’s worth a lot anyway,’ he said, taking a bottle of brandy out of the dashboard and taking a swig. ‘I’m going down hill faster than a greased pig as it is.’

‘I wish I could go home and change,’ said Harriet.

‘Don’t change a thing. What Simon likes is novelty and you’re certainly different.’

‘He’s only being kind because he knocked me off my bike.’

‘Simon,’ said Mark, ‘never does anything to please anyone except himself.’

Chapter Three

Harriet had never seen anything like Simon’s drawing room — with its shaggy fur rugs, huge tropical plants, emerald green silk curtains and roaring fire which flickered on the French paperbacks — mostly plays and pornography — in the bookshelves. Invitations were stacked like a pack of cards on the mantelpiece. Signed photographs of famous actors and actresses looked down from the black walls. Glamorous people prowled about the room like beasts in a jungle. Then, most glamorous of all Simon, his blue-green eyes glittering, came over to welcome them.

He removed Harriet’s coat, then her scarf, then her spectacles.

‘I don’t want you to see my imperfections too clearly,’ he said, kissing her on the cheek. ‘Isn’t she sweet?’ he added to Mark.

‘Yes,’ said Mark. ‘Much too sweet for you. That’s worrying me.’

A handsome Indian strolled up to them.

‘I wish you hadn’t painted this room black,’ he said petulantly. ‘I don’t show up against it.’

‘Go and stand in the snow,’ said Simon.

He gave Harriet a glass of ice-cold white wine, running his finger caressingly along her fingers as he did so.

‘That should cool you up,’ he said. ‘How was Theo? Did he like your essay?’

‘He seemed to — for once.’

‘What was it about?’

‘Which of Shakespeare’s heroes was — well — the b-best in bed.’

‘Bloody old letch excites himself that way. I suppose you’re an authority on bed now?’

Harriet looked at her feet. There was a pause, then she glanced up at Simon and encountered a look that nearly took her skin off. Crimson, she turned to look out of the window.

‘The snow’s so beautiful, isn’t it?’ she said in a choked voice.

‘We aim to please,’ he said smiling at her. ‘Sit down and enjoy the view. You don’t need to meet any of these boring people.’

Harriet parked herself on a black velvet window seat, trying to merge into the green silk curtains. She had never seen so many exotic people, and the room smelt so exotic too. Not only must every pulse spot of each ravishing creature be throbbing with expensive scent, there was also the smell of the apple logs burning in the grate, a faint whiff of incense, and the heavy fragrance of a huge bunch of rainbow-coloured freesias massed in a blue bowl on the table. There was another, sweet, clinging smell she couldn’t identify.

Suddenly there was a terrific pounding on the door, and a handsome man with grey hair walked in. Harriet immediately recognized him as the leading actor at the playhouse this week.

‘Simon darling, just knew this was your room. You can smell the stuff all the way down the street. You’ll get busted if you’re not careful. Hullo baby,’ he added to a stunning blonde in a white silk shirt, and, taking a cigarette from her lips, inhaled deeply. When he breathed out about two years later, he turned to two elegant young men who were following him.

‘They’re both called Jeremy,’ he said to Simon. ‘And they’re madly in love with each other, which makes things a bit complicated.’

The two young men giggled.

‘Jeremy and Jeremy,’ said the handsome actor. ‘You haven’t met Simon.’

‘We’ve heard so much about you,’ said the young men in chorus. ‘Quite the rising star, aren’t you?’

‘Simon,’ said a sulky-looking redhead with a mouth like a rubber tyre, ‘can’t we draw the curtains? All the plebs are looking in.’

‘My friend here,’ said Simon, giving Harriet a smile, ‘enjoys the view, so we’ll leave the curtains open.’

The redhead exchanged glances with the blonde in the white shirt.

‘How’s Borzoi, Simon?’ said the actor taking another drag at the blonde’s cigarette.

‘Gone to the States,’ said Simon.

‘For long?’

‘For good I hope,’ said Simon, filling Harriet’s glass.

The actor raised his well-plucked eyebrows.

‘Like that, is it? Imagine she was a bit of a handful.’

‘At least if she tries to come back, she’s such a bitch she’ll have to spend six months in quarantine,’ said Simon.

Everyone laughed. More people arrived. Harriet watched the undercarriage of the gulls dark against the sky. The railings in the street were losing their shape now.

‘I must do something about my hair,’ said a wild-looking brunette.

‘You could try brushing it,’ said her boyfriend.

Simon, the actor and the two Jeremys started swapping such scurrilous stories of stars of stage and screen that everyone stopped their conversations to listen.

‘Not boys, my dear, two girls at a time. His wife doesn’t mind; she’s got her own girlfriend anyway,’ said the actor.

‘I bet she minded her notices last week; they were ghastly,’ said one of the Jeremys.

‘Evidently in her costume she looks just like the Emperor Vespasian in drag,’ said Simon. Harriet’s eyes were out on stalks.

A rather ravaged beauty came through the door, wearing a fur coat and trousers. No-one took any notice, so she went out and came in again.

‘Deirdre,’ everyone shrieked.

‘I’m exhausted,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been to bed.’

‘Darling,’ said the actor, kissing her. ‘I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.’

Someone put on a record.

‘My very good friend the milkman says, that I am losing too much sleep,’ sang Fats Waller.

Mark Macaulay came and sat down by Harriet, and filled up her glass.

‘How’s your coccyx?’ he asked. ‘I ought to work this afternoon, but I shan’t.’

‘What are you going to do after schools?’ said Harriet.

‘I thought of having a stab at a Dip.Ed.’

‘I didn’t know you wanted to teach, Markie,’ shrieked Deirdre. ‘You hate children.’

‘I know, but a Dip.Ed’ll give me another year to look around. They don’t work one very hard, and by the end of another year, one might have decided what one wants to do.’

‘I’ve got an interview with a military publisher next week,’ said a boy in jeans with flowing blond hair. ‘I expect they’re awfully straight. Have you got a suit you can lend me?’

‘Simon has,’ said Mark. ‘You’d better get a haircut too.’

The snow had deadened the roar of the traffic in the Turl to a dull murmur. A little bunch of protest marchers were struggling down the street with placards.

‘The acne and anorak brigade,’ said Mark. ‘What are they banning this time, reds or fascists?’

‘More jobs for teachers, I think,’ said Harriet, trying to see without her glasses.

‘Aren’t they just like Good King Wenceslas and his page?’ said Deirdre. ‘Through the rude wind’s loud lament and all that.’

‘I’m sure Wenceslas had something going with his page boy,’ said Simon.

‘I wish I had principles,’ said Mark, looking at the marchers.

‘I like people better than principles,’ said Simon, ‘and I like people with no principles best of all.’

‘Oscar Wilde,’ muttered Harriet.

‘Clever girl,’ said Simon. ‘Dorian Gray’s my next part. OUDS are doing an adaptation.’

He’ll be marvellous at it, thought Harriet, watching him move off to fill someone’s drink. Even amidst the glittering menagerie of tigers he surrounded himself with, his beauty made him separate.

Two girls looked out of the window.

‘That car’s been parked there for ages,’ they said, ‘let’s go down and write something awful all over it.’

They rushed out of the door, and a minute later their shrieks could be heard, as, lifting their slim legs up like Hackney ponies, they raced across the snow.

On the wall opposite was pinned a poster of a beautiful girl with long streaky hair and cheekbones you could balance a tray on.

‘Who’s that?’ she said to Mark.

‘Borzoi, Simon’s ex,’ he said.

‘Why did they split up?’

‘Inevitable, darling. They both spent far too much time arguing with the mirror which was the fairest of them both. Borzoi’s doing better than Simon too, at the moment, and that doesn’t help. She’s also extremely spoilt.’

He looked at Harriet in amusement. ‘That’s why he fancies you.’

‘He couldn’t.’

‘Sure he does, and that’s what’s making Chloe so uptight.’ He nodded his head in the direction of the sulky redhead who was flirting determinedly on the sofa with the handsome actor. ‘She was convinced she was next in succession.’

Oh golly, thought Harriet, but the warm excited feeling inside her persisted.

Back came the two girls from the snow.

‘I only got as far as “Bugg”,’ shrieked one, ‘when a policeman came along.’

‘Everything looks so white and virginal,’ said the other, huddling by the fire.

‘Don’t know any virgins,’ said the actor. ‘Bit of a collector’s item these days.’

‘Moppet Wilson is,’ said Deirdre. ‘Never bares anything but her soul.’

‘What’s she saving it for?’ said Mark.

‘The man she marries. She thinks it's something one gives him like a pair of cuff-links on one’s wedding day.’

‘I’d rather have cuff-links,’ said Mark draining his glass.

‘Virgins must be boring to go to bed with,’ said Chloe, looking directly at Simon. ‘They don’t know first base from second.’

Harriet looked up. Simon was looking straight at her. He gave her his swift, wicked smile. He knows, she thought in panic, and felt herself going scarlet again. Oh why the hell had she worn red? She turned her burning face to cool it against the window pane.

‘When I was a child I liked popping balloons, and fuchsia buds,’ said Simon softly. ‘I always like putting my finger through the paper on the top of the Maxwell House jar. I like virgins. You can break them in how you like, before they have time to learn any bad habits.’

There was a long pause. Harriet got up and stumbled to the lavatory. Her heart was thumping, but her thoughts had taken on a strange, sensual, dreamlike quality. In the bathroom was a bidet, which seemed the height of sophistication. She toned down her face with some of Simon’s talcum powder.

As she came back into the room, the actor was leaving.

‘Must go, darling. I’ve got a matinée. If I drink any more I’ll fall off the stage. Come along Jeremy and Jeremy,’ he added to the boys, who were feeding each other grapes.

‘Do put in a good word for me to Boris,’ said Simon casually. ‘He was coming to see Cat, but he never made it. Tell him I’m doing Dorian Gray at the end of term.’

‘Sure will, baby,’ said the actor. ‘We’ll all have dinner one day next week.’

‘He doesn’t like the hours I keep. He suggests that you should marry me,’ sang Fats Waller.

‘Where shall we eat, Simon?’ said Chloe. ‘What about the Parisian.’

‘I’m not forking out a tenner for a lot of old bones cooked in cream,’ said Simon.

Chloe glared at him.

‘I must go,’ said Harriet hastily.

‘We’re just going to eat,’ said Simon.

She didn’t want to eat. She knew at last she had come face to face with someone so fascinating that, if she allowed him to do so, he would absorb her whole being. She felt on the verge of some terrible crisis. She wanted to be alone and think.

‘I promised to take Theo’s children tobogganing.’

‘Oh come on,’ said Simon. ‘They won’t mind.’

‘I promised.’

‘All right then, as long as you come back later.’

‘You’ll be fed up with people by then.’

‘Only of certain people. We haven’t begun yet.’

He put her coat on, and as he flipped her hair over the collar he let his hand slide caressingly down its newly washed length.

She jumped away nervously.

‘I’ll drive you back,’ he said.

‘No,’ she stammered. ‘I’d rather walk.’

But as she moved away down the path, he caught the two ends of her red scarf and pulled her back till they were only a few inches apart.

‘Promise you’ll come back?’

She nodded. She could see the scattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose. The bluey-green eyes were almost on a level with hers. He had hardly to bend his head to kiss her. He tasted of white wine and French cigarettes. She felt her stomach go liquid, her knees disappear, as all the books said they would and they never had with Geoffrey.

Breaking away from him, she ran down the street, not even feeling the icy winds now. As she rounded the corner, she surprised two undergraduates with placards by bursting out laughing.

Chapter Four

Her manic high spirits infected the children. They drove up to Hinksey Hill yelling Knick Knack Paddy Wack at the top of their voices, and screamed with delight as the red and silver toboggan hissed down the silent hillside, throwing them into the drifts and folds in the snow. Then they got up and, panting, pulled the toboggan to the top of the hill, hurling snowballs at one another, the Duttons’ cairn snapping at the snow with ivory teeth, until they were all soaked through but warm inside.

Simon Villiers kissed me, she wanted to shout to the white hilltops, and happiness kept bubbling up inside her as she hugged the children more tightly. They were reluctant to let her go.

‘Stay to tea,’ they pleaded. ‘There’ll be crumpets and chocolate cake and Doctor Who.’

‘Harriet obviously has other plans,’ said Theo Dutton, who opened the front door to them. ‘Be careful, my sweet. Read your sonnets. Try to shun the heaven, if it’s only going to lead to hell.’

Was it so obvious to everyone, wondered Harriet, as she galloped back to her digs through the snow. She passed the Robert Redford film without a twinge of regret. She’d got the real thing ahead of her.

Back in her room, she examined the picture of Geoffrey, smiling self-consciously and clutching a tennis racket. And that photograph makes him better looking than he really is, she thought. She glanced too, at the photograph of her elder sister Susie, looking ravishing on her wedding day and hanging on Peter Neave’s arm. That was one of Harriet’s problems, always being compared with a slim, beautiful sister who never got spots, and who had the kind of self control that never took too many potatoes, or betrayed too much interest in a man until she knew that he was hooked. Harriet knew how Susie had churned inside over the rich and glamorous Peter Neave, how she had waited all day biting her nails for him to ring, and when he finally did, had had the nerve to say, ‘No I can’t tonight, or tomorrow, or the next night, and I’m away this weekend,’ playing hard to get for the next few weeks until she’d literally brought Peter Neave to his knees with a proposal of marriage. How could one ever believe one was attractive when one ate too many cream buns and lived in Susie’s shadow, and frightened men off by getting too keen too quickly? She must try and be sensible about Simon.

What could she wear? Her grey shirt had a mark on the front; the maroon sweater had lost its elasticity in the wash so the polo neck looked like a surgical collar; she’d sweated lighter rings under the arms of her brown dress when she’d been nervous at a party. Her jeans were clean but they covered her legs, which were her best thing, and they were so tight they would leave marks all over her body when she took them off. But she was not going to take them off, she said to herself furiously. Soon there were clothes lying all over the floor. The water only ran to a tepid bath. She was in such a state she washed her face twice, cut herself three times shaving her legs, and then got back into the bath to wash between her toes in case Simon was the sort of man who kissed one all over. Then she rubbed her landlady’s handcream all over her body and smothered herself in French Fern talcum powder.

In the bedroom, she examined herself naked in the mirror. Were the goods good enough? Her bust was much too big. But men didn’t seem to mind that. Her legs were all right except for the bleeding, but everywhere else was a bit voluptuous. She took the mirror off the wall and, holding it above herself, lay down on the bed. Would she pass muster at this angle? Her stomach looked flatter anyway, and her hair fanned out nicely. Stop it, she said to herself furiously, you’re only going to have a drink with him.

There was a knock on the door. She jumped up guiltily, grabbing a towel.

‘Going out, dear?’ said the landlady, Mrs Glass. ‘There’s a nice piece of hot gammon if you fancy it.’

Mrs Glass often grumbled how much her lodgers cost her, but she preferred the ones that stayed in. Miss Poole was a nice, quiet girl, and sweet natured too, if she wasn’t so dreadfully untidy.

‘Your poor mother wouldn’t want you to starve yourself,’ said Mrs Glass, who thought everyone under eleven stone needed feeding up.

‘I’m going to a party,’ said Harriet. ‘I’ll probably stay the night with a girlfriend, so don’t worry if I don’t come back.’ The glib way she could lie.

‘Quite right not to trust young gentlemen driving on these roads,’ said Mrs Glass. ‘Do you good to get out and enjoy yourself for a change.’

‘I’ll have a real tidy out tomorrow,’ said Harriet, wincing as she put deodorant under her arms. Her leg was still bleeding; it must be all that excitement pulsating through her veins.

She put on a pair of black lace pants and a black bra with a red ribbon she had bought in anticipation of Geoffrey. The pants hardly covered her at all and the red ribbon was too much, so she tore it off.

There was her black sweater all the time under the bed. She could wear it with her red skirt. It was getting late. What happened if Simon got bored of waiting and went out?

For once, her hair obeyed her. She splashed a bottle of scent, a Christmas present from Susie, all over her. She hoped it didn’t clash with the French Fern. How did French ferns differ from English, she wondered. Perhaps they were more sophisticated.

She galloped back along the streets. It was very cold now and the street lights gave the snow a curious pale radiance. Her breath crystallized in little clouds before her. The white nights, she said to herself; she was Anna Karenina smothered in furs hurrying to meet Vronsky, Natasha quivering with guilty expectation waiting for Anatole.

She felt more and more sick with nerves. Perhaps her mouth tasted awful; she stopped at the newsagents to buy some chewing gum. The windows of Simon’s digs were black. He’s gone, she thought in panic; one of those dazzling creatures has spirited him away. No, a thin beam of light trickled through the green silk curtains. A group of people were coming out. Oh, those echoing self-confident voices!

‘I do think it’s anti-social of Simon to throw us out when it’s so cold. Chloe is going to be simply livid,’ said one of the girls, scooping up a snowball and throwing it at one of the boys, as they all went screaming off into the night. Harriet threw away her chewing gum, it made no sound as it landed in the snow. The door was still open as she went up the path. Simon emerged from the darkness, his hair gleaming white in the street lamp.

‘I thought you’d done a bunk,’ he said.

‘I got soaked. I had to change.’

He put his hand out and touched her cheek.

‘You’re frozen. Come in.’

Only three people were left in the drawing room. Deirdre, who was putting on lipstick, a blond man who was rooting around the drinks tray to find himself some more wine, and Chloe who sat on the sofa, huddled like a sparrow on the telegraph wires on a cold day.

‘Oh poor thing,’ thought Harriet. ‘I’d mind losing Simon.’

‘Come on chaps,’ said Simon removing the bottle from the blond man, ‘chucking-out time.’

Harriet went over to the fire. She felt miserably embarrassed. Chloe looked mutinous. Simon got her blond, squashy fur coat out of the bedroom and held it out for her.

‘Come on, darling,’ he said firmly. ‘Beat it.’

Two angry spots of colour burnt on her cheeks. She snatched the coat from him and put it on herself.

‘You’re a bastard, Simon,’ she hissed. ‘And you won’t escape unscathed either,’ she added to Harriet, and, with a sob, ran out of the room down the stairs.

‘We might all meet at Serena’s party later,’ said Deirdre, kissing Simon on the cheek. ‘She is expecting you, Simon.’

‘Not tonight, darling. Tell Serena I had a previous. .’ He shot a glance at Harriet. ‘No, a subsequent engagement. Now good night, darlings.’ And he shut the door on them.

He turned and shot Harriet that swift, devastating smile.

‘One has to be brutal occasionally to get what one wants in life.’

‘She was awfully upset,’ said Harriet.

‘She’ll recover,’ said Simon.

He chucked some logs on the fire, covering the flame and throwing the room into semi-darkness, and gave her a drink, the cold condensing on the outside of the glass. She held onto it to stop her hands shaking and took a huge gulp; it was a long time since the baked beans.

Simon disappeared into another room. She felt as though she was alone in some deserted woodland house, and that Indians or some invaders were slowly creeping through the undergrowth towards her — but she didn’t know when or from where they were going to attack. Simon returned with the remains of a quiche on a plate.

‘We never did have any lunch. Do you want some?’

She shook her head.

Simon helped himself to a slice.

‘You’re all right after the crash, are you?’ he said with his mouth full.

‘Just a few bruises, that’s all.’

‘I must look at them later.’

Her heart thumped madly; the firelight flickered on his face. She jumped as a log fell out of the grate.

‘Relax,’ said Simon. ‘I’ve never seen anyone as terrified as you. What put that scared look in your eyes? Were you raped as a child? Did you have strict parents? Were you bullied at school?’ He was making fun at her now, but his voice was like a caress.

She took another gulp of wine. Having eaten the inside of the quiche Simon was about to throw the pastry into the fire.

‘We could give it to the birds,’ said Harriet.

‘We could, I suppose.’ He opened the window, letting in a draught of icy air; the snow gleamed like a pearl. Simon put a record on the gramophone. It was a Mozart piano concerto.

‘You still look sad,’ said Simon.

‘I was thinking. . about Chloe.’

‘Not worth it. She’s the most frightful scrubber. I only took her out a couple of times. She’s one of those girls like scrambled egg, amazingly easy to make, but impossible to get off the pan afterwards.’

Harriet giggled.

‘That’s better,’ said Simon, ‘now come and sit on the sofa. No, next to me, not six feet away.’

She was still trembling, but the excitement was beginning to take over. He picked up her hand and kissed it.

‘I thought you were terribly good in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,’ she said brightly.

‘I know I was,’ said Simon. ‘So we’ve exhausted that subject.’

His hand on the back of the dark green velvet sofa was edging towards her hair, but he didn’t touch her. His timing was so good, he held off until she was in a panic that he was never going to. It was terribly hot in the room, she could feel the sweat trickling between her breasts.

‘You’re so pretty,’ he was saying in a low husky voice, and then he kissed her. At first she kept her arms clamped down by her side, but suddenly like the reflex action when one’s knee is tapped, they shot up and coiled themselves round Simon’s neck, and she was kissing him back with all her might, and his hands were on the move all over her body. Hastily she pulled in her spare tyre.

‘I mustn’t.’

‘You must, you must.’

‘You’ll think I’m too easy.’

‘I don’t. I just think you’re overdressed, that’s all,’ and he took off her earrings and put them side by side on the table. Then took off her shoes, and took the telephone off the hook.

She sat back waiting for an attack on another front.

‘You’ve got such a lovely body,’ he said, filling both their glasses.

‘One should really take lessons at prep school in undoing bras. Oh, I see; it does up at the front,’ he said a minute later.

His hands were warm on her bare back. He kissed her eyes, her hair, her mouth; she’d never dreamed he’d be so tender.

‘No,’ she gasped, leaping up as his fingers edged inside her waistband.

How could she explain she wouldn’t be easy like this, if she didn’t find him so overwhelmingly attractive?

‘Sweetheart, stop fighting it,’ he whispered. ‘I refuse to be put outside the bedroom every night, like flowers in a hospital.’

Harriet gasped. ‘You’ve read Geoffrey’s letter!’

‘I picked it up in the snow. I’m glad he’s glad you’ve gone on the pill, but I’m even gladder.’

‘You shouldn’t read other people’s letters,’ she said furiously.

‘One must, just to find out all the nice things they’re saying about one. Tell me about Geoffrey. What does he do?’

‘He’s a marine biologist.’

‘Oh well, we can’t all be perfect.’

‘He’s clever,’ said Harriet defensively. ‘He’s just come down from Plymouth.’

‘One can’t come down from Plymouth. One can only go up,’ said Simon. He was attacking her waistband again.

‘It’s too soon,’ she muttered. ‘I don’t even know you.’

‘You talk too much,’ he said. ‘I’ve never heard so much fuss about something that’s so nice.’ He started to pull off her sweater and she was enveloped in a fuzz of black wool.

‘It’s got buttons at the back,’ she squealed, as he nearly removed her ears.

‘Don’t be frightened,’ he said, when she was finally freed, and he pulled her down on the floor beside him. The applewood of the logs mingled with a trace of his lavender aftershave, and the animal smell of the white fire rug which scratched against her back. She had no will power. It’s going to happen she thought in panic.

‘Will it hurt?’

‘You’ll be so excited by the time I’ve got you revved up, you won’t feel a thing,’ he whispered.

In a few minutes the Mozart concerto jigged jollily to its ending, and the only sounds in the room were her gasps for breath and the soft crackling of the fire.

Later they went into the bedroom, and once in the night she got up to go to the loo, and gazed at herself in the bathroom mirror, searching for lines of depravity. She looked rather disappointingly the same except that her face was flushed, her eyes glazed. She wondered why she didn’t feel more guilty, then realized it was because she loved him.

Chapter Five

‘That was so gorgeous,’ she said next morning when they woke up.

He grinned. ‘You’ll find it a perfect hobby, darling, and so cheap. I say,’ he added, ‘what’s your name?’

She gave a gurgle of laughter.

‘Harriet,’ she said. ‘Harriet Poole.’

‘I’ve never had a Harriet before.’ He lay back and laughed, ‘Oh I’m just wild about Harriet,’ and then he pulled her down on top of him.

For the next fortnight she had to keep pinching herself. Simon Villiers was her lover; the impossible had been achieved. They hardly got out of bed, except for the occasional excursion to the Randolph for breakfast, or an excursion to Hinksey Hill to see what making love was like in the snow. Harriet found it extremely cold, and nearly died of a heart attack when a cow looked over the fence and mooed at her.

Never in her life had she been so happy. Willingly she cooked for Simon, ironed his shirts rather badly, ran his errands, and submitted rapturously over and over again to his love-making.

‘You really do ad-dore it, don’t you?’ he drawled in amazement.

The snow seemed here to stay. The ploughs came and scattered salt and sand on the roads, but the houses and the parks were still blanketed in whiteness. Harriet was doing absolutely no work. Simon had forbidden her to wear her glasses, so work gave her a headache anyway. She rang both Theo Dutton and Geoffrey and told them she’d got ’flu. The weight fell off her; she lost over a stone living on wine and love.

Never had she met anyone so witty, so glamorous, so glorious as Simon. Only one thing nagged her, at this supreme moment in her life: she felt unable to describe him adequately in her diary. There was an elusiveness about his character that she couldn’t pin down; he seemed permanently to be playing someone other than himself, and watching himself doing it at the same time. Although books filled his flat, he never appeared to read, except theatre reviews in the paper or the odd stage magazine. When he watched television he was far more interested in the techniques of the actors and actresses, and in who was playing whom, than in the story.

It was only in the third week things started to go wrong. Simon had an audition in London with Buxton Philips. Not realizing it was early closing day, Harriet arrived too late to get his grey velvet suit out of the cleaners. She was shattered at the storm of abuse that broke over her when she got home.

‘But you’ve got hundreds of beautiful suits,’ she stammered.

‘Yes,’ hissed Simon, ‘but I wanted to wear this one,’ and he walked out of the house without even saying goodbye.

Harriet was supposed to be writing her essay on the sonnets, but she couldn’t stop crying. In the end she gave up working, wrote a poem to Simon, and spent hours making a moussaka, which she knew he liked.

He came back from London on the last train, if anything in a worse mood than when he left.

‘How did it go?’ she said nervously.

‘Bloody terrible! Buxton Philips didn’t show up.’

‘Oh no,’ wailed Harriet. How could anyone stand up Simon?

‘All I saw was some old bitch of a secretary. “Ay’m sorry, Mr Villiers, but it’s always wise to ring Mr Philips in the mornin’ to check he’s able to make it, he’s so busy.”’

‘Oh poor Simon.’ She got up and put her arms round him, but she could sense his detachment.

‘Fix me a drink,’ he said, pacing up and down the room. ‘In a few years’ time, that bastard’ll be crawling to me. “Ay’m sorry, Mr Philips, Mr Villiers is far too busy to see you.” He’ll regret this.’

‘Of course he will,’ said Harriet soothingly. ‘You’re going to be a big star, Simon. Everyone says so.’

She handed him a drink.

‘I missed you so much, I’ve even written you a poem,’ she said blushing. ‘I’ve never written anyone a poem before.’

She handed it to him.

Simon skimmed through it, his lips curling.

‘“Our love is like a rainbow arched in shuddering orgasm against the sky”,’ he read out in a deliberately melodramatic voice. ‘“Orgasm” in the singular? I must be slipping.’

Harriet flushed and bit her lip.

‘I also found this lovely sonnet, which describes exactly how I feel about you,’ she said hastily, handing him the volume of Shakespeare.

‘Harriet de-ah,’ sighed Simon, as he glanced at it, ‘if you knew the number of women who’ve quoted that poem at me! You’re in danger of getting soppy, sweetheart. I don’t mind women being romantic, but I can’t stand soppiness.’

She tried once again.

‘I’ve made some moussaka for supper,’ she said.

‘I’m bored with moussaka,’ said Simon.

She was still crying when he came to bed. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘I love you,’ said Harriet, in a choked voice. ‘Well, if you love me,’ said Simon softly, ‘you must like the whip.’

He woke up next morning in a better mood, and they made love, sat drinking coffee and reading the papers in bed until lunchtime. Harriet had forgotten the insults of last night, aware only of a swooning relief that everything was all right again. Her euphoria was short-lived. She was looking at the horoscopes.

‘It says I’m going to have a good day for romance,’ she giggled. ‘Perhaps I shall meet a tall dark stranger. I always dreamed I’d fall in love with someone tall and dark. Funny you should be small and blond.’

‘I am not small,’ said Simon icily.

She knew by the idle drumming of his fingers on the bedside table that there’d be trouble, that he’d bide his time and then retaliate without scruple. He started to read a piece about some famous actor’s sex life. When he came to the end he said:

‘That’s why I want to make it up the top. Apart from telling Buxton Philips to get stuffed, just think of the birds one could pull. Once you become a big star, you can virtually have any woman you want.’

There was a pause. Harriet felt faint at the thought of Simon having another woman. A great tear fell onto the paper she was reading, followed by another, and another.

‘What’s eating you?’ said Simon.

She got clumsily out of bed; not wearing her spectacles and blinded by tears, she bumped into a table, knocking off a little Rockingham dalmatian that she knew Borzoi had given Simon. It smashed beyond redemption. Harriet was appalled.

‘I’ll buy you another, Simon, truly I will.’

‘As it cost about £80, I think that’s extremely unlikely,’ he snapped. ‘For God’s sake stop snivelling. It’s bad enough you breaking it, without making that Godawful din. I’m hungry. Go and put on the moussaka, and then have a bath, but don’t forget to leave the water in.’

Harriet lay in the bath, trying not to cry and wondering what it would be like to be married to Simon. ‘Harriet Villiers’ had a splendid seventeenth century ring. Could she cope with being the wife of a superstar? Some stage marriages she knew lasted for ever. She wouldn’t be a drag on him; when he was away acting, she’d have her poems and novels to write; she might even write a play for him.

She could just see the first night notices:

‘Simon Villiers’s wife is not beautiful in the classical sense, but there is an appealing sensitivity, a radiance about this brilliant young playwright.’ Unthinkingly she pulled out the plug.

Simon walked into the bathroom, yawning, hair ruffled, to find Harriet sitting in an empty bath, dreamily gazing into space.

‘I thought I told you to leave the fucking water in.’

Harriet flushed unbecomingly.

‘Oh God, I’m frightfully sorry. Perhaps there’s some hot left.’

There wasn’t.

Even worse, she went into the kitchen and found that, although she’d turned on the oven, she’d put the moussaka into the cupboard instead, so when Simon came in, shuddering with cold and ill-temper, there was nothing to eat. The row that followed left her reeling. He really let her have it. She had no defences against the savageness of his tongue.

Once more she went and sobbed in the bedroom, and she heard the front door slam. Hours later when he came back she had cried herself to sleep. He woke her up.

‘You’re too sensitive, Harriet baby. You overreact all the time. Poor little baby,’ he said gently, ‘poor, poor little baby. Did you think I wasn’t coming back?’ Never had he made love to her so tenderly.

Chapter Six

Harriet woke up feeling absurdly happy. True love could only be forged on rows like that. It was the first of March, her meagre allowance had come through. She got up, leaving Simon asleep. She cashed a cheque at the bank, and bought croissants and orange juice. In spite of a bitter east wind, the snow was melting, dripping off the houses, turning brown and stacked in great piles along the road.

It would be spring soon. She imagined herself and Simon wandering through the parks with the blossom out, or punting under long green willows, and dancing till dawn at a Commem ball. All great love affairs had their teething troubles.

When she got back to Simon’s rooms, she took his mail into his room. He was still half asleep, so she went to the kitchen and made coffee and heated up the croissants. She was worried about a large spot that was swelling up on the side of her nose. However much make-up she put over it, it shone through like a beacon; she must start eating properly.

When she took breakfast into his room, he had woken up and was in excellent form.

‘Buxton Philips’s written me a letter saying he’s sorry, he’s coming down to Oxford to take me out to lunch,’ he said, draining a glass of orange juice.

‘Oh darling, that’s wonderful,’ said Harriet.

Simon drew back the curtains. Harriet sat down on the bed, with the spot side furthest away from him, pouring out coffee.

‘I think you’d better start packing, darling,’ he said, liberally buttering a croissant.

‘Oh God, is your mother coming to stay?’

He shook his head, his face curiously bland. ‘I just think it’s time you moved out.’

She looked at him bewildered, the colour draining from her face.

‘But, why? Was it because I smashed your dog, and let out your bath water, and forgot about your suit, and the moussaka? I’m sorry, I will try to concentrate more.’

‘Darling, it isn’t that,’ he said, thickly spreading marmalade. ‘It’s just that all good things come to an end. You should live a little, learn a bit more about life, play the field.’

‘But I’m not like that. I’m a one-man girl.’

Simon shrugged his shoulders.

‘W-when will I see you,’ she was trembling violently now.

‘You’re making this very difficult for me,’ he said gently.

She sat down.

‘Mind my shirts,’ said Simon hastily, removing the shirts she had ironed from the chair.

She stared at him. ‘What did I do wrong?’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, you didn’t do anything wrong.’

It must be a bad dream, it must be. She felt her happiness melting round her like the snow.

‘Why can’t I see you any more?’

‘Darling, for everything there is a reason. You’re a lovely warm crazy girl, and we’ve had a ball together. Now I’ve broken you in nicely, you’ll be a joy for the next guy, but it’s time for us both to move on.’

‘But I love you,’ she stammered.

He sighed. ‘That’s your problem, sweetheart. I never said I loved you. I never pretended this was going to last.’

Her face had a look of pathos and stricken dignity.

‘I don’t believe it,’ she whispered.

Simon was not finding this as easy as he had expected, rather unpleasant in fact. Oh God, why did women get so keen on one? He was nibbling the skin round his thumb nail. He seemed to Harriet to have shrunk in size; there was something about his eyes like an animal at bay.

She licked her dry lips. ‘Will you find someone else?’

‘Of course I’ll find someone else,’ he snapped, anger with himself making him crueller towards her. ‘Borzoi’s coming back. I got a letter from her this morning.’

‘And so I get d-dumped like an unwanted dog on the motorway.’

Slowly it was dawning on her that his future didn’t contain her.

He tried another tack. ‘You’re too good for me, Harriet.’

‘I’m not,’ she said helplessly.

‘Yes, you are, I need a tough cookie like Borzoi.’

The sun, which hadn’t been seen for ages, suddenly appeared at the window, high-lighting the chaos of the room — the unmade bed, Harriet’s clothes strewn over every chair, the brimming ashtrays.

‘Cheer up,’ said Simon. ‘At least it’s a lovely day. Come on, lovie, get your things together; we haven’t got much time.’

As he threw records, scarves, papers, make-up into her suitcase, she felt he was getting out an india rubber and carefully erasing every trace of her from his life. He was hard put to contain his elation. Even his goodbye was absent-minded. He patted her on the bottom and told her to behave herself. She could almost hear his sigh of relief as he shut the door and rushed back to tidy up for Borzoi.

She went straight home and dumped her suitcase. For a minute she lay on her bed and listened to the clocks striking all over Oxford. Only eleven o’clock. A whole day to be got through, a whole lifetime without Simon stretching ahead. She got up, turned on the gas and knelt down beside it; after ten seconds the meter ran out.

Mrs Glass came in and started to shout at her for the rent, then she saw Harriet’s face and stopped. ‘White as a corpse, poor little thing,’ she told her husband afterwards. ‘’Er sins must have catched up with ’er.’

Harriet got up and went out and walked round the town, the slush leaking into her boots. She didn’t notice the cold even in her thin coat. She had nothing of Simon’s. He had written her no letters, given her no presents. How crazy she had been, how presumptuous to think for a moment she could hold him. It was like trying to catch the sun with a fishing net. She walked three times round the same churchyard, then took a bus to Headington, looking at the trees, their branches shiny from the melting snow. She got off the bus and began to walk again, thinking over and over again of the times Simon and she had spent together, illuminated now in the light. Never again would she tremble at his touch, or talk to him or gaze at him. All she would hear was stupid people yapping about his latest exploits, that he’d landed a part in a play, that he was back with Borzoi.

It couldn’t be true. Borzoi would come back, Simon would realize they couldn’t make a go of it, and send for Harriet again. Wading through the cold grey slush, she walked back to her digs and fell shuddering into bed.

Everyone said, ‘I told you so.’ Geoffrey was magnanimous, then irritated that she wouldn’t snap out of it, then furious that Simon had succeeded where he had failed, and made violent attempts to get her into bed. Her girlfriends, who had all been jealous of her and Simon, were secretly pleased it was over. Theo Dutton was vitriolic about the badness of her essay.

The child looked in terrible shape. She was obviously having some kind of crisis.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Who is it?’

‘No-one, nothing,’ she muttered. ‘Simon Villiers.’

‘Oh dear, oh dear. He was the nasty bug all my girl students caught last summer. I thought he’d gone out of fashion now. I must say I’m disappointed in you, Harriet. I thought you had better taste. He was one of the worst students I’ve ever had; his mind is earth-shatteringly banal.’

Then, like Mrs Glass, he saw the stricken look on her face and realized he was on the wrong tack.

For days she didn’t eat, wandering round Oxford getting thinner and thinner, gazing for hours at the river, wondering whether to jump, hanging around Simon’s digs at a respectable distance hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Mostly she saw him come out and sit in his car, impatiently drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, revving up the car, lighting cigarette after cigarette. Then Borzoi would come spilling out, spraying on scent, trailing coloured scarves, her gorgeous streaky gold hair tumbling over her face. And they would drive off arguing furiously.

Chapter Seven

It was only after a month that Harriet started to worry — but it was a worry that was nothing compared with losing Simon. Another week slipped by, then one evening she washed her hair and put on a black dress of Susie’s that she’d never been able to get into before, but which now hung off her, and went to see Simon. She waited in the cold till Borzoi had gone out, almost biting her lip through as she watched Simon kiss her in the doorway. Then Borzoi drove off with a roar, and Simon went back into the house. He took a long time to answer the doorbell. For a minute she gazed at him close up; he was after all only a face. How could he have caused her so much unhappiness? Then suddenly all the old longing came flooding back.

‘Hullo,’ he said, hardly seeming to recognize her. ‘Oh it’s you,’ he added politely. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Can I come in?’

He looked at his watch. ‘I’m going out in a second.’

‘I don’t want to hassle you, but it’s important.’

‘Oh dear,’ he sighed. ‘Well, you’d better come in.’

The room was in chaos. There were ashtrays full of stubs everywhere and finger-smeared tumblers, and cups full of old wet coffee grounds. Clothes, everything from fur coats to party dresses, lay piled high on every chair.

‘Tidiness has never been Borzoi’s strong point,’ said Simon, picking some dead flowers out of their vase and throwing them dripping into the ashes of the fireplace. ‘Thank God the char’s coming in the morning.’

He put a cigarette in his mouth — not offering her one.

‘Well,’ he said, noticing her red-rimmed eyes. ‘How are things? You’ve lost a lot of weight. Been dieting?’

Harriet took a deep breath. ‘Simon, I’m pregnant.’

The match flared. Simon breathed in deeply. The end of the cigarette glowed. He threw the match into the fire.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I had the results of the test yesterday.’

‘But you were on the pill.’

‘I know; but I’d only just started taking it, and the night we first w-went to bed together, I was in such a state beforehand I think I may have forgotten to take it.’

‘Bloody little fool,’ said Simon, but not unkindly. ‘Are you sure it’s mine?’

She looked up horrified, her eyes full of tears.

‘Oh yes, there’s never been anyone else.’

‘What about Jeremy or Gordon, or whatever he was called.’

‘Geoffrey? Oh no, I couldn’t. I didn’t. .’

She started to cry.

‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Simon. She was aware only of the terrible boredom in his voice. She might have been some mild inconvenience, a button off his shirt, a pair of dark glasses left in a taxi.

He went into the kitchen and put the kettle on.

‘Well, you’d better go to London as soon as possible, and see Dr Wallace.’

‘What for?’

‘To get rid of it of course.’

‘B-but I couldn’t.’

‘It’s not dangerous any more, darling. You don’t want to listen to any of those old wives’ tales. Dr Wallace is a pro. They just suck it out with a Hoover these days.’

Harriet winced.

‘Borzoi’s been to him twice,’ said Simon. ‘So have Chloe and Deirdre and Anne-Marie and Henrietta. Honestly, he ought to give me a discount the number of birds I’ve sent to him.’

‘But I don’t want. .’ Harriet began.

‘You might feel a bit depressed afterwards, but it’s the end of term next week, so you can go home and recuperate.’

‘But it’ll be so expensive. I don’t want to rip you off.’

‘Oh don’t worry about that, darling; I’ll treat you. I’m not that much of a sod. Do you mind Nescafé? Borzoi insists on making real coffee, but it’s so disgusting, and I can never get the coffee grounds out of my teeth.’

He poured boiling water into two cups and handed one to her.

‘If you like,’ he went on, putting two saccharine into his cup, ‘I’ll ring old Wallace now, and fix you up an appointment. The old bags on the switchboard give people they don’t know rather a hard time.’

The scalding coffee burnt her throat but seemed to give her strength.

‘Would you mind terribly if I kept it?’

‘Oh be realistic, angel. You of all people are simply not cut out to be a one-parent family. I know people keep their babies, but they have a bloody awful time, unless they’re rich enough to afford a lover and a nanny.’

Harriet sat in Dr Wallace’s waiting-room feeling sick, thumbing feverishly through the same magazine, watching girls go in and out. Some looked pale and terrified like herself, others obviously old timers, chatted together and might have been waiting for an appointment at the hairdresser’s. Two models embraced in the doorway.

‘Fanny darling!’

‘Maggie!’

‘Friday morning — see if you can get booked in at the same time, and we can go in together.’

Dr Wallace was smooth, very suntanned from skiing and showed a lot of white cuff.

‘You’re certain you don’t want to get married and have the child, Miss Poole? This is a big step you’re taking.’

‘He doesn’t want to marry me,’ whispered Harriet, unable to meet the doctor’s eyes. ‘But he’s perfectly happy to pay. I’ve got a letter from him here.’

Dr Wallace smiled as he looked at Simon’s royal blue writing paper.

‘Oh dear! Mr Villiers again; quite a lad, isn’t he? One of our best customers.’

Harriet went white. ‘Fond of him, were you? Shame, shame, boy’s got a lot of charm, but not ideal husband material, I wouldn’t say. You’re very young, plenty more fish in the sea. Not much fun bringing up a baby on your own, pity to ruin a promising academic career.’

‘I know,’ said Harriet listlessly.

‘Just got to get another doctor to sign the form. Will first thing Friday morning be all right for you? You’ll be out in the evening. There, there; don’t cry, it’ll be soon over.’

Her last hope was her parents. She caught a train down to the country. As she arrived one of her mother’s bridge parties was just breaking up. Middle-aged women, buoyed up by a couple of gin and tonics were yelling goodbye to each other, banging car doors and driving off.

Harriet noticed as she slunk up the path that the noisiest of all was Lady Neave, Susie’s mother-in-law.

‘Goodbye, Alison,’ she was saying, clashing her cheek against Harriet’s mother’s cheek with infinite condescension. ‘Great fun! We’re all meeting at Audrey’s next week, aren’t we, Audrey? Hullo,’ she added, suddenly seeing Harriet. ‘Are you down for the weekend? You must go over and see Peter and Susie. The new wallpaper in the drawing room is such a success.’

What a gauche child thought Lady Neave, as she drove the Humber off in a series of jerks, narrowly missing the blue gates at the bottom of the drive. One could hardly believe she came from the same family as Susie, who although not quite what the Neaves would have liked for their only son, knew her place and was shaping up as a nice little wife.

Mrs Poole, having made her farewells, found Harriet slumped in a chair in the kitchen, the cat purring on her knee. Why must the child look such a fright, she thought, that awful duffle coat with all the buttons missing, no make-up, hair unkempt. She was just like her father, always grubbing round in his silly old museum.

‘I wish you’d warned me,’ she said. ‘I’ve only got sausages for supper. Are you staying the night?’

‘Yes please,’ said Harriet.

‘That’ll be nice — just the two of us.’

‘Where’s Daddy?’

‘Away; gone to one of his dreary ceramics conferences.’

Harriet’s heart sank. Her father was the only person she could talk to.

Her mother put some sausages on to fry, and started washing up.

‘These bridge fours have become a regular thing,’ she said, plunging glasses into soapy water. ‘Elizabeth Neave’s really a wonderful girl.’

How could anyone over forty be described as a girl? thought Harriet.

‘She’s really bullying me to get a washing-up machine; she says they’re such a boon when one’s entertaining.’

Harriet looked at the rubber gloves whisking round the hot suds — like surgeon’s hands, she thought in horror, sucking a baby out like a Hoover. The smell of frying sausages was making her sick. Out in the garden the wind was whirling pink almond blossom off the trees.

Look at her just mooning out of the window, thought Mrs Poole. Susie would have picked up a tea-towel and been drying up by now.

‘How’s the ’varsity?’ she said. ‘You look very peaky. Have you been working too hard?’

Harriet turned round:

‘I’m pregnant,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Pregnant.’

The rubber hands stopped, then suddenly started washing very fast.

‘How do you know?’

‘I had a test.’

‘It’s Geoffrey,’ said her mother in a shrill voice, ‘I never liked that boy.’

‘No it isn’t. It’s someone else.’

‘You little tart,’ hissed her mother.

Then it all came flooding out, the hysterics, the tears, the after all we’ve done for yous, the way we’ve scrimped and saved to send you to university.

‘I knew this would happen with all those Bohemians with their long hair and petitions, and free love,’ shouted her mother. ‘It’s all your father’s fault. He wanted you to go so badly. Where did we go wrong with you? What will the Neaves say?’

On and on, round and round, repeating the same arguments with relentless monotony.

Harriet sat down. The cat, no respecter of crisis, rubbed against her legs, and then jumped onto her knee purring like a kettle drum.

‘Could you please turn those sausages off?’ said Harriet, suddenly overwhelmed with nausea.

‘What are you going to do about it?’ said her mother. ‘I suppose the young man’s ditched you.’

‘He doesn’t want to marry me, if that’s what you mean.’

‘He may have to,’ said her mother ominously.

‘Oh, Mummy, it’s the twentieth century,’ said Harriet. ‘Look, it meant something to me, but it didn’t mean anything to him. He doesn’t love me, but at least he’s given me the money for an abortion.’

Her mother took the cheque. Her expression had the same truculent relief of people who have waited half an hour in the cold, and who at last see a bus rounding the corner.

‘Banks at Coutts, does he? Fancies himself I suppose. Isn’t it against the law?’

‘Not any more,’ said Harriet. ‘I went to a doctor this morning in London. It’s all above board; they’ll do it on Friday.’

‘It seems the best course,’ said her mother somewhat mollified. ‘The young man does seem to have his wits about him.’

Harriet took a deep breath.

‘Do you really want me to go ahead with it? Wouldn’t it be better to keep the baby?’

Her mother looked appalled, as though the bus had turned out to be ‘Private’ after all.

‘What ever for? Where could you keep it?’

It was as though she was talking about a pet elephant, thought Harriet.

‘You can’t have it here,’ her mother went on. ‘Think what people would say — the Neaves for example. It’s not fair on Susie and Peter. Where would you live? You haven’t got any money.’

‘You thought it was all right when Amanda Sutcliffe had a baby,’ said Harriet.

‘Everyone knows Amanda Sutcliffe’s a bit potty. Those sort of girls are expected to get themselves into trouble. It seems callous, I know, but with your ’varsity career and all that the only answer seems to be to get rid of it.’

‘It isn’t an “it”, it’s a her or a him; it’s your grandchild,’ said Harriet in desperation. ‘You always wanted grandchildren.’

‘But in the proper way,’ said her mother, starting to cry. ‘What would everyone say?’

‘What does it matter?’ said Harriet, and, rushing out of the room, ran upstairs to her own room and threw herself down on the bed.

Later her mother came up and sat on the bed and stroked her hair.

‘I’m sorry I shouted at you, darling. It’s just the shock. You must realize you can’t just have a baby. It’s a serious responsibility; having it’s only the beginning. A child needs a stable family, parents, financial support. Once Friday’s over, you’ll be able to carry on with your life. You know how heartbroken Daddy will be if you don’t get a degree. You need a holiday. We might all go to the Lakes this vac. I know you’ve always wanted to see Wordsworth’s cottage.’ She was smoothing her shoulder lightly but firmly now as though she were making pastry. Harriet found it dimly touching that her mother was trying to be nice, but only dimly. Since Simon had gone she found it very difficult to react to anything normally. She came down and watched television with her mother, who later said she was tired and went to bed. Harriet sat dry-eyed and stared at the horror movie which was about a huge tarantula spider. She hardly realized that the spider had been replaced by a vicar talking about resignation: ‘For everything there is a season,’ he began in his thin reedy voice.

And it reminded her so much of Simon that tears suddenly spurted out of her eyes. Growing inside her was the only thing of Simon’s she had left. It was at that moment she decided to keep the baby.