Zelda’s Cut. Philippa Gregory
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you?’ He stamped to the back door and threw it open. ‘I’m going for my walk,’ he said irritably.
‘I’ll pick you up from the pub,’ she said quickly to the closing door.
‘You don’t need to,’ he said crossly. ‘I’m going up the hill. I don’t know how long I’ll be.’
Isobel let him go. There was no point in running after him. She went to the kitchen window and watched his endearing limping stride carry him slowly to the end of the garden and then out through the wrought-iron gate to the track that wound steeply up the side of the Weald. He would never manage to walk to the crest of the hill, she knew. He would be too breathless and his weakened legs could not carry him up that hard gradient. She watched him with a pity which was so intense that it felt like passion. She wanted to go after him, she wanted him to lean on her, she wanted to support him.
Philip would be back by teatime, she reassured herself. He would be tired out within half an hour and sit down to rest, too proud to come home straight away. As long as he did not take a chill he would come to no harm, stubbornly sitting out the afternoon, wanting to worry her, insisting on his independence. By four he would limp homeward, wanting his tea. He would hate it if she ran after him, he would hate it if she showed how easily she could catch him up, even if she were following him for love. He would even hate knowing that she had watched him go. He did not want pity, he wanted them both to behave as if nothing was wrong. The best thing that she could do for him was to earn the money to buy the things he wanted, and to maintain the life that they had chosen.
Isobel turned back to the study. She could get the full text of Devil’s Disciple formatted and printed out and ready to take to London when she went on Sunday night. She felt that the most loving thing she could do for him was to sell the Zelda Vere novel and earn him the money he needed now.
Troy opened the front door of his London flat almost as soon as she rang the bell. ‘This is getting a bit tense,’ he said, leading the way from the little hall up the carpeted stairs. Isobel followed, carrying her overnight bag. ‘I told one of the publishers they could meet you and now they all want to come. I said they could come here, each of them, at hourly intervals. Half an hour quick chat and then go. So I’ve kept it as short as I can.’
Isobel heard herself give a nervous little laugh. ‘Well, the worst that can happen is they don’t bid for the book, isn’t it? It’s not as if we’re impersonating a policeman or anything. We’re not doing anything criminal.’
‘No,’ he said, slightly cheered. ‘I thought we’d have a practice tonight, a dress rehearsal.’
‘Of course.’
Troy threw open the door to the spare bedroom and Isobel went inside. The wardrobe doors were open, the plastic covers were off the suits. The makeup was laid out on the dressing table, eyeshadows and liner and mascara to the left, lipsticks to the right, foundation powders and blushers in the centre. The shoes, free of their shoe trees, were standing side by side at the foot of the bed.
‘You got it all ready!’
‘It just seemed the right thing to do – preparing the star’s dressing room.’
Impulsively, Isobel turned around and kissed him. He held her lightly for a moment and she had a sudden surprising sense of his nearness, of the intimacy of his touch.
‘Now get out of that dreadful skirt and into Zelda’s lovely clothes and we’ll get started,’ he said briskly.
She hesitated for a moment, waiting for him to leave, but he had turned aside to the wardrobe to slip the suit off the hanger. He was so matter-of-fact, so uninterested that she felt that it was all right to undress before him. It was as he said, like being an actress, like being a star. He was her dresser; he was not a lover watching her strip.
‘It’s your fault it’s an awful skirt,’ she said stoutly, pushing the elasticated waistband down over her hips. ‘I wanted to take the suits home.’
‘Zelda stays here. I take care of her clothes. You can go and buy yourself some new things if you need them. But not too glamorous. You two have to stay separate.’
Isobel stepped into the pink skirt and carefully pulled it up, zipped it up, and settled it on her hips with her hands in the odd coquettish gesture that all women in snug skirts naturally adopt.
‘Nice,’ Troy said. ‘And the jacket?’
‘I need the new bra,’ Isobel said. ‘It won’t fit right without it.’
‘Oh, of course,’ he said. ‘Top drawer on the right.’
Isobel opened the drawer. He had unpacked all the underwear and folded it meticulously on scented liners. There was also a new silk nightdress.
‘What’s this?’ Isobel asked.
‘I couldn’t see Zelda sleeping in a pair of cotton pyjamas, so I bought her something a bit silky.’
‘Thank you,’ Isobel said. ‘You’ve been to a lot of trouble.’
‘I enjoyed it,’ he said simply. ‘I liked getting the things just right, and I loved the makeup. All those little bottles, it’s just like the little pots of model paints I had when I was a kid.’
Isobel hesitated, wanting to take off her bra but feeling shy.
‘I’ll get us a couple of glasses of champagne,’ Troy said. ‘Help the alibi along. Zelda always drinks Roederer, I think. I got some in.’
Isobel dressed swiftly while he was gone and when he came back she was seated before the mirror pulling the skullcap over her hair.
‘It would be miles easier if I did go blonde,’ she said.
Troy put the cold glass of champagne on the dressing table beside her. ‘Absolutely not. You’d be too alike, and anyway, I like having her hair waiting here, along with her clothes. I looked in last night and she was like a ghost waiting to be raised.’
Isobel sipped her glass, and then ducked her head and pulled the wig on.
‘Careful!’ Troy snapped. ‘You’ll tear it! Here! Let me.’
‘It’s so tight!’ she complained.
‘Hold it at the front while I pull it down at the back.’
Isobel held the fringe as firmly as she dared while Troy heaved from behind. Slowly the skin stretched and then encased her head. She pushed the hair back from her face and looked into the mirror. A face halfway between Isobel and Zelda looked back at her, with Isobel’s tired skin and dark-shadowed eyes and pale lips, but Zelda’s glorious mane of barmaid blonde.
‘Put some makeup on quick,’ Troy urged her. ‘Shall I do it? I was watching what she did.’
‘Oh yes please.’ Isobel tipped her head back, closed her eyes and gave herself up to the pleasure of his touch. He cleansed her skin with the same gritty, sweet-smelling cream, and then wiped it clean, patted it with toner and then moisturiser and then stroked on the foundation cream with tiny sensual sponging gestures, intruding like a lapping kitten into the corners of her eyes, sweeping like the wing of a bird across her cheeks.
‘Don’t open your eyes,’ he whispered, his lips very close to her ear. ‘I want to do the lot.’
She stayed completely still, as he commanded, her eyes closed, the sensitive skin of her cheeks, her temples, recognising the warm breath of the powder, the soft brush of the blusher. Her eyelids were soothed by the soft stipple of the eyeshadow, pressed by the application of false eyelashes, and then slicked by the wet line of the eyeliner.
The touch of the lipstick brush on her lips was like a hundred small, slow kisses. She felt her soft lips dragged gently one way and then another in a slow, tantalising, dabbing gesture.
Then the soft tissue was laid over all her face and patted gently down.
‘Et voilà!’ Troy said, his