Scandalous Risks. Susan Howatch
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went upstairs to unpack, Nick wandered outside to tune into the right nature-vibes – or whatever psychics do in gardens – and Mrs Ashworth took me upstairs to her private sitting-room. Unlike my mother’s boudoir at Flaxton Hall there were no dreary antiques, no ghastly oil-paintings of long-dead ancestors, no boring photographs of babies and no vegetation in sight. The air smelt celestially pure. On the walls hung some black-and-white prints of Cambridge and a water-colour of the Norfolk Broads. The only framed photograph on the chimney-piece showed her husband as an army chaplain during the war.
‘Sit down,’ said Mrs Ashworth, closing the door. ‘Now that we’ve got rid of the men we can relax. Cigarette?’
‘I do like this room,’ I said, accepting the cigarette and sinking into a comfortable armchair. ‘It’s all you, isn’t it? Everything’s your choice. All my life I’ve had to put up with revolting inherited furniture and now I’ve finally reached the point where I’m determined to have a place of my own.’
‘Splendid! All young people need to express themselves through their surroundings. You should have seen Michael’s room when he went through his Brigitte Bardot phase!’
‘I bet Charley puts up all the right pictures,’ I said, not daring to ask what the Bishop had thought of the Bardot pin-ups.
‘Fortunately Charley only has space on his walls for books. My former employer Bishop Jardine left Charley his entire theological library – no doubt because Charley always said he wanted to be a clergyman when he grew up … But let’s get back to you. So you’re seeking a room of your own! But why seek it in Starbridge?’
‘I’m not sure that I will – I’ve only drifted down here because I’ve got a standing invitation to use the Put-U-Up sofa in Primrose’s flat. I’m such a drifter, Mrs Ashworth! I despise myself for drifting but I don’t seem able to stop. It’s as if I’m marking time, waiting for my life to begin, but nothing ever happens.’
‘When will you consider that your life’s begun? At the altar?’
I was grateful for her swift grasp of my dilemma. Well, I know marriage shouldn’t be the be-all and end-all of a woman’s life, but –’
‘It certainly was before the war. Perhaps this is a case where “the more things change the more they remain the same”.’
‘I think it must be. As I see it, I really do have to get married in order to live the kind of life I’d enjoy, but here I am, almost twenty-six, and I’m beginning to think: supposing I never marry, never win respect and status, never stop drifting – I could wind up wasting my entire life.’
‘A nightmarish prospect.’
Terrifying. And then I start to feel desperate – desperate, Mrs Ashworth, I can’t tell you how desperate I feel sometimes – and now I’m convinced I’ve got to act, got to get out of this rut –’
‘Well, it sounds to me as if you’re making progress at last! You’re looking for a place where you can express your real self; you’ve embarked on an odyssey of self-discovery … Do you have to worry about money?’
‘No, I’ve got a hefty income because I came into money from both my godmothers when I was twenty-one. Maybe that’s part of the problem? If I were penniless –’
‘– you’d hate it. I did. Now let’s consider your situation carefully –’
‘I don’t have a situation, Mrs Ashworth, I just have a non-event.’ The words suddenly began to stream out of my mouth. ‘I want to live – I mean live – I want to swill gin and chat about philosophy with a gang of brilliant people and smooch with handsome men and dance till dawn and burn the candle at both ends, but all I get are boring nine-to-five jobs, social events where I’m an embarrassing failure, no love-life and evenings spent swilling gin on my own while listening to Radio Luxemburg. I’ve never had a boyfriend. I did belong to a gang of clever people but they were all girls. Here I am, bursting to join in the Great Party of Life yet confined to the margins by my utter lack of sex appeal, and it’s awful, Mrs Ashworth, absolutely awful, so utterly vile and unfair –’
‘But anyone,’ said Mrs Ashworth, ‘can have sex appeal. It’s simply an attitude of mind.’
I stared at her. She gave me a sphinx-like smile. Enrapt I tried to speak but failed.
‘It’s all a question of confidence,’ said my heroine, flicking ash from her cigarette casually into the nearby tray, ‘and in your case it would be confidence in your appearance. You want to be able to walk into a room and think: I’m glamour personified – how lucky all those men are to see me!’
‘But I’m not beautiful!’
‘Neither was Cleopatra.’
‘Yes, but she was Queen of Egypt –’
‘– and she made the most of it. That’s what you have to do too – make the most of your assets. Stand up for a moment.’
I stood up.
‘Revolve.’
I revolved.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Ashworth tranquilly, waving her cigarette to indicate I could sit down again, ‘it’s all very simple. Wear plain, tailored clothes which emphasise your waist and hips. Never wear flat shoes even though you happen to be tallish. Favour V-necks to distract the masculine eye from your shoulders and take care not to stoop – that only makes the shoulders more noticeable. And grow your hair.’
‘Grow it? But Mrs Ashworth, I’ll turn into a sort of yak!’
‘Nonsense, men adore the Pre-Raphaelite look. Oh, and go to a beauty salon and get advice on make-up. You have the most beautiful eyes. Make them a focal point.’
‘But do you really think that if I do all this –’
‘That’s just the beginning. Then you must plot how to get in with a crowd of clever, interesting people by exploiting a clever, interesting person who’s already known to you. How about Christian Aysgarth? You can’t be much younger than his wife.’
‘Well, yes, I do know Christian and Katie, but –’
‘Splendid! They’re your passport to your new life. Don’t linger in dull old Starbridge. Seek that room you want in Oxford and wangle your way into Christian’s set.’
‘But Christian just sees me as one of Primrose’s gang of virgin spinsters!’
‘He won’t when you arrive in Oxford flaunting glamorous eye make-up and Pre-Raphaelite hair. I think that you and Primrose,’ said Mrs Ashworth, careful in her choice of words, ‘may have reached the parting of the ways.’ Before I could comment she was adding with regret: ‘I wish I could invite you to stay tonight, but thanks to Nicholas and our visiting American bishop, we’ve got a full house.’
I said with curiosity: ‘What’s Nick’s connection with your family?’
‘His father and Charles have known each other for many years, and since Jon Darrow’s now very old Charles likes to keep a paternal eye on Nicholas to make sure he’s all right.’
‘Isn’t there a mother?’
‘She died. There’s a half-brother in London –’
‘The actor.’
‘That’s right – and there was a half-sister, but she’s dead now too and Nicholas never had much in common with her children.’
‘He’s very …’ I tried to find the right word but could only produce a banality ‘… unusual.’
‘Yes, isn’t he? Sometimes I think he needs a substitute mother, but I never feel my maternal instinct can stretch far enough to take him on – although I must say, my maternal instinct seems to have stretched out of sight during