Free The Twilight Hour by Elizabeth Wilson

admitted this to himself, for he grumbled: ‘I can’t make Gwendolen out. What is it with you females, always falling for these …’ He groped for an adequate word.
    â€˜Cads and bounders?’ I suggested helpfully – or fascists, in her case, if Colin was to be believed.
    â€˜You’re all the same, you women. Well, not you, you’ve got a head on your shoulders, Di. But take my sister now – she fell for some swanky con man who ran off with her savings. Then there’s my wife – mind you I’m divorcing her .’ Then, as if he remembered something, ‘But that’s turning out to be a nightmare too. Turns out getting a divorce is more difficult than closing a property deal. A lot more difficult. It’s worse than abortion,’ he said, warming to his theme. ‘All you need’s the right contacts and the cash for that .’ He stopped abruptly, looked at me. ‘Sorry, excuse me for mentioning that.’
    â€˜It’s all right,’ I said airily. ‘I know all about these things.’
    He looked at me quizzically. ‘Yes, I daresay you do. In theory at any rate. Anyway, the divorce laws are bloody archaic, absurd. It was only a quickie wartime marriage, and now we’ve gone our separate ways, but my lawyer’s saying I have to fix up a dirty weekend in Brighton, so it looks as though we’re not – what’s the word – “colluding”. I couldn’t believe it at first. I said to Joe, that’s my lawyer, I said, “You mean to say we can only get a divorce if one of us doesn’t want to? That’s barmy, completely barmy.” “It’s the law, Stanley, old son,” he said.’
    Stanley looked at me. ‘Don’t suppose your old man could help out there?’ he said.
    â€˜ Alan ?’
    â€˜Don’t be daft. Your dad.’ He spoke in an almost wheedling tone. ‘He’s a lawyer, isn’t he?’
    I had to tell him my father didn’t do divorce. He was a criminal lawyer – and a pretty important one now, after his success at the Nuremberg trials.
    â€˜Not to worry. It wouldn’t matter if …’ He let the sentence trail off into a shrug and stared out of the window at the murky streets where bent, cowed figures scuttled through the Stygian gloom.
    By the time we got back to the office it was completely dark. It was the time I normally went home, but Stanley asked me to make him some coffee. He insisted on coffee, even at tea time. That was another scarce good he could always get hold of. He said I made a good cup of coffee, which pleased me inordinately, and I usually made enough for myself as well, for I enjoyed the chats we had together then, savouring our coffee with evaporated milk, and sometimes delving into the broken biscuits I bought from Woolworth’s.
    On this particular afternoon he still seemed preoccupied. Then, abruptly: ‘It’s late, after six. Are you wanting to get off home? Doing anything this evening?’
    I shook my head. ‘This weather’s so awful, once you get indoors, you don’t want to go out again.’
    I thought he was going to invite me out for a drink, or even a meal. He hedged around a bit and then produced a letter, which he pushed across his desk towards me. A name was written on the envelope, but there was no address. The name was Titus Mavor.
    Stanley didn’t know the address, he said. He thought I could find out, and post the letter, or even take it round.
    â€˜This evening? Now ?’ I was taken aback.
    He looked a bit guilty: ‘Would you mind, Di? It’s quite important. Take a taxi. At least it’s not snowing. I wouldn’t have asked if it’d been like last night. That was a blizzard .’ And he pressed a ten shilling note into my hand.
    His furtive behaviour intrigued me, but it was disturbing too. I took the blue envelope – and the rusty brown