The Villa in Italy. Elizabeth Edmondson
Dawn was breaking as a weary Delia and Jessica drove the last few miles to the airport. It was hardly more than a landing field, with a man so clearly ex-RAF in charge that Jessica said in an appalled whisper to Delia, ‘Let’s hope he didn’t know Richie.’
The plane was waiting on the runway, heavy-bellied and stubby-winged. A laconic mechanic took the key and ran the MG up the ramp and into the dark space inside. He clattered back down the ramp and directed them to some rickety steps set against the side of the plane.
‘Hardly luxury travel,’ Delia said, as she stooped to enter the plane. They sat down on one of the two benches that were placed on either side of the fuselage. Opposite them, a man in a grey suit was reading a newspaper, and beside him were a pair of sleepy-eyed Frenchmen who said good morning; one was smoking a French cigarette that filled the narrow space with strong, foreign fumes.
The plane lumbered along the runway and heaved itself into the air. The sound of the engines was too loud for any conversation; Delia twisted herself round and looked out of the small window. She could see the whirring propeller, and, looking down, the crests of white peaking on grey waves. They flew low across the Channel, so low that, as they approached the French coast and flew over a fishing boat straggling back to harbour, Delia could see the face of the man at the tiller.
The flight only took half an hour, and by mid-morning, refreshed with black, bitter coffee, they had left Le Touquet and were motoring along straight French roads towards Paris. A slight mist lingered in the air, and it was no warmer than England, but to Delia it felt as though she’d landed in a new world.
‘Oh, the relief of getting away,’ Jessica said. ‘I’m so grateful to you. I hope you meant it about the work.’
‘I did. You know me, I’m a pro. If I couldn’t spare the time, I’d have said so, even though you are my oldest friend.’
Jessica looked over her shoulder. Behind them the road stretched away between two neat lines of plane trees; the only other person visible was a cyclist in a beret, pedalling slowly and deliberately.
‘Do stop looking round,’ said Delia. ‘We haven’t been followed—we’d know by now if we had. Or do you think Giles Slattery will be after us, disguised as a Frenchman on a bicycle?’
‘You may joke, but you’ve no idea how persistent those ghastly reporters can be.’
‘Did you tell anyone you were coming to France?’
‘Only Mr Ferguson. My lawyer. I think that was all right, don’t you?’
‘As long as he doesn’t spill the beans to any prowling reporters.’
‘He won’t,’ said Jessica, with certainty. ‘He’s not that sort of man.’
‘What’s he like? Is he going to put pressure on Richie?’
Mr Ferguson had startled Jessica on her first visit to his offices. Winthrop, Winthrop & Jarvis had refused to act for her, not caring for messy divorce cases, and had recommended Mr Ferguson, of King’s Bench Walk. ‘He has a reputation for handling such cases with skill and discretion,’ Mr Jarvis told her.
Short, stocky Mr Ferguson was altogether a different kind of lawyer from the grim-visaged Mr Jarvis. No grey striped trousers and black jacket for Mr Ferguson. He wore a crumpled grey suit that had seen better days, favoured loud ties and, Jessica was sure, never wore a bowler hat.
‘A foxy man,’ Jessica said. ‘But very clear. There’s no such thing as divorce by consent, although they did try for reform after the war, so he told me. The politicians wouldn’t have it. Too risky for the stability of family life. So there have to be grounds.’
‘Such as adultery.’
‘Or mental cruelty or intolerable conduct—actually, isn’t that the adultery bit? Or insanity.’
‘You’ve said that Richie is crazy.’
‘He is, but no judge would accept that for a moment. Then there’s desertion.’
‘Well, you’ve deserted him.’
‘That doesn’t count, not if he doesn’t want to bring an action. Which he doesn’t.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Rape, sodomy, bestiality.’ Jessica laughed. ‘Can you imagine stuffy old Jarvis saying those words in front of me?’
‘Has Richie been unfaithful?’ said Delia.
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’ve got grounds.’
‘Not grounds I can use.’
Jessica had refused to give any details to Mr Ferguson. ‘They say, never lie to your lawyer or your accountant,’ he said, giving her a shrewd look.
‘I’m not lying. I’m simply telling you that, yes, he has committed adultery, and no, I can’t cite the other person.’
‘Pity. Of course, any case you brought, especially if it were contested, would be headline news. So if there’s someone whose name you don’t want to see dragged through the pages of the gutter press…’
‘Richie knows I won’t bring the other woman into it,’ Jessica said to Delia. ‘So he’s sitting pretty. And I get all the opprobrium for walking out on him, and he preserves a hurt and dignified silence.’ She fiddled with a thread on her glove. ‘Oh, why did I marry him? Theo says…’ She gave Delia a swift look and changed the subject. ‘Heavenly countryside.’
The newsroom at the Sketch was a blaze of lights on a dark morning, and a hive of activity and noise, with phones ringing, messenger boys running in and out, and people having shouted conversations with one another across the room.
‘Mr Slattery,’ said a brassy blonde in a tight skirt, as the swing doors opened and Giles Slattery came in. ‘Telephone message. Your bird’s flown the coop.’
‘Mrs Meldon?’
‘Yes.’
Giles Slattery swore.
The blonde, who had heard much worse, took no notice. ‘Her char says she’s gone to the country, to her family in Yorkshire. Jim’s checking that end.’
‘Tell Jim to see what he can find out, but my bet is that she hasn’t gone home. Doesn’t get on too well with Mummy and Daddy right now; they adore Richie Meldon and are very angry with her.’
‘The Meldons are in Scotland,’ called out a lissome young man, who was perched on a window sill and twirling a pencil in his fingers. ‘Staying with those rich cousins of theirs, the Lander-Husseys. There are a few lines about it in William Hickey’s column this morning.’
Giles Slattery hooked his mac on the hatstand and tossed his trilby on to a dusty head of Karl Marx that some office wag had placed on top of a filing cabinet. He sat down and drummed his fingers on the desk.
Where could she have gone? he said to himself. His mouth screwed up at one side as he thought. ‘Put Sam on to checking the ferries. Since she’s driving, she could be anywhere, but I have a hunch she’s heading abroad. Easier for her to hide out on the Continent, out of reach of hubby and the press, that’s what she’ll think. Well, she thinks wrong.’
Slattery rammed one of his thin cigars into his mouth. He struck a match and lit it, then shook out the match and dropped it on the floor.
‘Tell Sam to get on to that airstrip in Kent, what’s it called? Lydd. You can fly your car over to France from there, if you’ve got the money. She’ll have gone to Paris; these bloody women escaping from their husbands always head for Paris. God damn the woman