Every Man for Himself - Beryl Bainbridge [57]
She was very frank. She said it was much better being the mistress of a rich man than a poor one, and it had nothing to do with money. Well, obviously it had . . . what she meant was that if Guggenheim had been earning a few dollars a week and living in a cold water apartment, his having a girl on the side would be darn selfish.
‘And unlikely,’ I said. ‘Unless it was true love.’
‘Jesus,’ she exclaimed. ‘There’s nothing true about love.’ My expression must have conveyed dismay, for she again playfully tapped my knee. ‘Take my word for it, Morgan, there wouldn’t be any joy in it, not after the first flush . . . all those meetings on street corners . . . all that petting in dark doorways with the rain pelting down. The wife would soon cotton on and give him hell . . . make him feel like a rat—’
‘It’s a dismal picture,’ I said.
‘If you’re rich, nobody gets hurt. Who can accuse Benny of neglecting his family?’ There were other advantages too. For instance, if a man was next to broke his woman was called a floozie; if well-heeled, a secretary.
‘Or a gold-digger,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but not to their face.’
We both watched the snail-like progress of Mr and Mrs Straus through the doorway. As usual, they were arm in arm. The way they leaned together it seemed that if either one let go the other would lose balance. I couldn’t be sure whether I found this touching or disturbing. Such dependence was surely dangerous. If one of them got detached, what then?
Ginsberg arrived shortly after with Hopper. They’d been messing about in the gymnasium. They had intended to jog round the deck but the cold was enough to freeze them in their tracks. There wasn’t a breath of wind, the sea like glass, and the stars – ‘I’ve never seen such a starry sky,’ Hopper enthused, ‘not even in the desert.’
Ginsberg congratulated me on becoming a protégé of Thomas Andrews. He sounded genuinely delighted, which threw me. I noticed Hopper kept quiet. Ginsberg had heard the news from Rosenfelder, though in the telling I’d turned into the designer of a new ship of the White Star line, one possibly larger than the Titanic.
‘It’s just a few drawings,’ I corrected. ‘And there’s not the remotest chance of their being used. I guess it’s a sort of examination.’ Hopper looked relieved. Ginsberg insisted on drinks all round, by way of celebration. Thinking it churlish to refuse, I was careful to take small sips. By the time the bugle blew for dinner Hopper and he were on their second bottle.
Wallis came late to our table. She’d been helping Adele get dressed; Ida was still engaged in the titivating. Wallis sat next to me. I didn’t turn a hair, nor did I need to call up the giant’s foot, not even when she took out her handkerchief and I caught the scent of lavender. What had happened was no more than a photograph snapped long ago, in another country, its chemical impression now fading. I even had the composure to apologise for my behaviour in the foyer, though it was somewhat tongue in cheek. ‘You must have been very frightened,’ I said. ‘It was the action of a brute.’
‘I’ve forgotten it,’ she answered graciously. ‘As must you. By the way, your dressing-gown is being laundered. You shall have it tomorrow.’
The soup was being served when Rosenfelder’s moment came. Several times I’d glimpsed his tubby countenance at the glass, anxiously peering to see if the dining room was full. He’d obviously squared it with the orchestra and arranged some kind of signal, for suddenly the waltz song from The Merry Widow petered out and the pianist thumped a cadenza. Conversation straggled to a halt. Lady Duff Gordon rose to her feet and pointed with her fan towards the doors, at which the violinist raised his bow and the haunting opening notes of ‘One Fine Day’ stole through the hushed saloon. Adele entered on the arm of Rosenfelder.
It doesn’t matter that I’m not qualified to judge what she wore or that I couldn’t even describe it adequately – none of us men could, beyond it was shaped like an hour-glass