Free Illusions of Happiness by Elizabeth Lord Page B

supper in a good restaurant. And now, six weeks later, she hardly ever thought of him as being in his late fifties. Seated opposite her at some restaurant table, he looked at times so much younger despite greying hair which, thick still, had been dark judging by that still remaining in his moustache. Only a fraction taller than herself, although slightly robust and broad of face, he was very well preserved for one his age. On top of that he was a gentleman in every way. She always felt well looked after, felt utterly at ease with him, in some ways even drawn to him for all he’d never so much as kissed her or put an arm about her. The most was to take her elbow to help her in and out of his limousine, or up and down theatre stairs or those of whatever restaurant they visited. Bringing her home he would help her from his car, not waiting for his chauffeur to do so, would kiss her hand and always watch her go indoors before leaving, his brown eyes full of concern.
    Every Friday and Saturday he would take her to dinner or a theatre and supper afterwards. Sundays, he’d show her London, perhaps a museum or other places of interest; if the weather was fine a stroll in one of London’s parks. All the while she had been compelled to alternate between her few garments, wearing one of her two gowns for evening, and for day alternating between her three blouses and skirts. Often she despaired.
    This Saturday evening while enjoying supper, after seeing
Pygmalion
at a small theatre he’d taken her to, he said: ‘Forgive my asking, my dear, I hope you don’t think me impertinent, but why do you insist on wearing the same two gowns of an evening?’
    The question put her back up a little and without thinking she heard herself snap at him. ‘Because these are all I have!’
    Instantly she regretted her outburst as he looked chastened. ‘I am so sorry, my dear,’ he began, quickly adding, ‘not for hearing that they are all you have but for embarrassing you with such a thoughtless question.’
    Madeleine too became apologetic. ‘I’m the one who should say sorry. I should not have snapped at you.’
    He shook his head waving away her apology with a slight movement of his hand before returning to his meal, she to hers. The rest of the evening passed through intermittent silences, his remark and her reply having become a tiny barrier like a little ghost standing between them.
    Her worst fears were confirmed when despite his tender kiss on her hand as they parted, he told her that he would be unable to see her on the Sunday as he had to go up to the Midlands for a few days. He didn’t say why, nor did he speak of seeing her the following weekend; this worried her and she went to bed feeling wretched.
    After a miserable, sleepless night, she spent the Sunday in her room staring out of the window at the row of tenements on the other side of the yard that separated hers from them. Those few words had obviously marked the end of her association with James. Something told her that some time next week a letter would arrive to say that he would not be seeing her this coming weekend, nor would he be able to see her for some time to come.
    Sick and dejected, she knew that when she next saw Dolly she would have to confess that her relationship with James Ingleton had ended.
    Dolly would be pleased. Whenever she spoke to her of James, Dolly had behaved quite distantly. Jealousy no doubt, a rich escort able to take her here wherever he, or she, liked. But then it hadn’t mattered; she had James and life had been quite wonderful. Now of course, that was over.
    No doubt when she was forced to tell Dolly, the girl would cheer up instantly, ask her to join her and her friends on Friday nights. Madeleine did not particularly fancy doing so but what else was there for her?
    So far she had survived six weeks in this awful place with James’s help. In his company she’d eaten well, had thus managed to save a little on the pitiful allowance her