Free The Doll by Daphne du Maurier

got an appointment with my publisher,’ he lied.
    Somehow he managed to get away. What did it matter if he was rude? The man had ruined his life anyway. He leapt into a taxi. ‘Drive like the devil!’ he shouted. Stop, though, he suddenly had a longing to buy her something. The most priceless jewel – the most marvellous furs – anything. He would like to shower gifts at her feet. Perhaps there wasn’t time for all this. It would have to be flowers after all. It was months since he had bought her flowers. How foul of him. He chose an azalea, an enormous one with pink waving buds. ‘This will last a month or more if it’s watered frequently,’ said the woman.
    ‘Will it really?’ He became quite excited, he walked out of the shop clutching the pot in his arms. She would be pleased with this. A month! Pretty good value considering. The buds were small now, but they would open a little every day, they would get bigger, the plant would grow into a small bush. ‘The symbol of my love,’ he thought sentimentally.
    Supposing she had gone, though, supposing she had killed herself? He would go mad, he would scatter the petals of the azalea over her body with a wild, despairing cry. Rather an effective scene for the last act, he must remember this. No, by God, he would never write another line again, he would dedicate the whole of his life to her, to her alone. Oh! how he was suffering. If she only knew what he was going through. His heart was bursting, it had never happened to anyone in the world before. What had he done that he should suffer so? He was certain there would be an ambulance outside the door, they would be carrying her limp form on a stretcher. He imagined himself leaping from the taxi, and covering her pale dead hand with kisses. ‘My beloved – my beloved.’ No, the street was empty. The house seemed unchanged. He paid the taxi and opened the front door – silently, like a thief. He crept upstairs, and listened outside her room. He heard her move. Thank God! Nothing had happened then. He wanted to shout for joy. He burst open the door, a fatuous smile on his face.
    Poor darling, had she been writing letters all day? Her face was white and strained. Why on earth was she looking so unhappy? Wasn’t she pleased to see him back?
    ‘Look,’ he stammered foolishly, ‘I’ve bought you an azalea.’
    She did not smile, she scarcely noticed the flower. ‘Thank you,’ she said in a dull voice. How inevitable of him. How unfeeling and unintelligent. Would he never understand her? Did he think he could just go off and enjoy himself after having broken her heart, and then bring back this plant as a peace offering? She could picture him saying to himself. ‘Oh! I’ve only got to buy her a flower, and then kiss her, she’ll forget all about this morning.’
    If only it was as easy as that. His attitude wounded her, distressed her beyond measure. He had no heart, no delicacy of thought.
    ‘Don’t you like it?’ he asked her, like a spoilt child.
    Why had he bought the beastly thing? His agony at lunch, his terrible impatience in the taxi, meant nothing to her. Everything was a failure. The azalea looked foolish and conceited in its big pot. It seemed quite different in the shop. Now it mocked him, the colour was vulgar, much too pink. It was a hideous type of flower altogether. It didn’t even smell. He wanted to crash it to the ground.
    ‘Are you going to make a habit of this in future – a reminder for each time you hurt me?’ she asked him.
    She loathed herself, she hated her words, she longed to say something entirely different. The atmosphere was terrible. Why couldn’t they be themselves again? He had only to make the first move. But her speech stung him, she insisted on ignoring every word he said.
    ‘My God,’ he shouted, ‘there’ll never be another time. I’m finished with the whole damned business, finished. Do you understand?’
    He left the room, and went out of the house. The door