Jilly Cooper - Harriet

It was only in the third week things started to go wrong. Simon had an audition in London with Buxton Philips. Not realizing it was early closing day, Harriet arrived too late to get his grey velvet suit out of the cleaners. She was shattered at the storm of abuse that broke over her when she got home.

‘But you’ve got hundreds of beautiful suits,’ she stammered.

‘Yes,’ hissed Simon, ‘but I wanted to wear this one,’ and he walked out of the house without even saying goodbye.

Harriet was supposed to be writing her essay on the sonnets, but she couldn’t stop crying. In the end she gave up working, wrote a poem to Simon, and spent hours making a moussaka, which she knew he liked.

He came back from London on the last train, if anything in a worse mood than when he left.

‘How did it go?’ she said nervously.

‘Bloody terrible! Buxton Philips didn’t show up.’

‘Oh no,’ wailed Harriet. How could anyone stand up Simon?

‘All I saw was some old bitch of a secretary. “Ay’m sorry, Mr Villiers, but it’s always wise to ring Mr Philips in the mornin’ to check he’s able to make it, he’s so busy.”’

‘Oh poor Simon.’ She got up and put her arms round him, but she could sense his detachment.

‘Fix me a drink,’ he said, pacing up and down the room. ‘In a few years’ time, that bastard’ll be crawling to me. “Ay’m sorry, Mr Philips, Mr Villiers is far too busy to see you.” He’ll regret this.’

‘Of course he will,’ said Harriet soothingly. ‘You’re going to be a big star, Simon. Everyone says so.’

She handed him a drink.

‘I missed you so much, I’ve even written you a poem,’ she said blushing. ‘I’ve never written anyone a poem before.’

She handed it to him.

Simon skimmed through it, his lips curling.

‘“Our love is like a rainbow arched in shuddering orgasm against the sky”,’ he read out in a deliberately melodramatic voice. ‘“Orgasm” in the singular? I must be slipping.’

Harriet flushed and bit her lip.

‘I also found this lovely sonnet, which describes exactly how I feel about you,’ she said hastily, handing him the volume of Shakespeare.

‘Harriet de-ah,’ sighed Simon, as he glanced at it, ‘if you knew the number of women who’ve quoted that poem at me! You’re in danger of getting soppy, sweetheart. I don’t mind women being romantic, but I can’t stand soppiness.’

She tried once again.

‘I’ve made some moussaka for supper,’ she said.

‘I’m bored with moussaka,’ said Simon.

She was still crying when he came to bed. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘I love you,’ said Harriet, in a choked voice. ‘Well, if you love me,’ said Simon softly, ‘you must like the whip.’

He woke up next morning in a better mood, and they made love, sat drinking coffee and reading the papers in bed until lunchtime. Harriet had forgotten the insults of last night, aware only of a swooning relief that everything was all right again. Her euphoria was short-lived. She was looking at the horoscopes.

‘It says I’m going to have a good day for romance,’ she giggled. ‘Perhaps I shall meet a tall dark stranger. I always dreamed I’d fall in love with someone tall and dark. Funny you should be small and blond.’

‘I am not small,’ said Simon icily.

She knew by the idle drumming of his fingers on the bedside table that there’d be trouble, that he’d bide his time and then retaliate without scruple. He started to read a piece about some famous actor’s sex life. When he came to the end he said:

‘That’s why I want to make it up the top. Apart from telling Buxton Philips to get stuffed, just think of the birds one could pull. Once you become a big star, you can virtually have any woman you want.’

There was a pause. Harriet felt faint at the thought of Simon having another woman. A great tear fell onto the paper she was reading, followed by another, and another.

‘What’s eating you?’ said Simon.

She got clumsily out of bed; not wearing her spectacles and blinded by tears, she bumped into a table, knocking off a little Rockingham dalmatian that she knew Borzoi had given Simon. It smashed beyond redemption. Harriet was appalled.

‘I’ll buy you another, Simon, truly I will.’

‘As it cost about £80, I think that’s extremely unlikely,’ he snapped. ‘For God’s sake stop snivelling. It’s bad enough you breaking it, without making that Godawful din. I’m hungry. Go and put on the moussaka, and then have a bath, but don’t forget to leave the water in.’

Harriet lay in the bath, trying not to cry and wondering what it would be like to be married to Simon. ‘Harriet Villiers’ had a splendid seventeenth century ring. Could she cope with being the wife of a superstar? Some stage marriages she knew lasted for ever. She wouldn’t be a drag on him; when he was away acting, she’d have her poems and novels to write; she might even write a play for him.

She could just see the first night notices:

‘Simon Villiers’s wife is not beautiful in the classical sense, but there is an appealing sensitivity, a radiance about this brilliant young playwright.’ Unthinkingly she pulled out the plug.

Simon walked into the bathroom, yawning, hair ruffled, to find Harriet sitting in an empty bath, dreamily gazing into space.

‘I thought I told you to leave the fucking water in.’

Harriet flushed unbecomingly.

‘Oh God, I’m frightfully sorry. Perhaps there’s some hot left.’

There wasn’t.

Even worse, she went into the kitchen and found that, although she’d turned on the oven, she’d put the moussaka into the cupboard instead, so when Simon came in, shuddering with cold and ill-temper, there was nothing to eat. The row that followed left her reeling. He really let her have it. She had no defences against the savageness of his tongue.

Once more she went and sobbed in the bedroom, and she heard the front door slam. Hours later when he came back she had cried herself to sleep. He woke her up.

‘You’re too sensitive, Harriet baby. You overreact all the time. Poor little baby,’ he said gently, ‘poor, poor little baby. Did you think I wasn’t coming back?’ Never had he made love to her so tenderly.

Harriet woke up feeling absurdly happy. True love could only be forged on rows like that. It was the first of March, her meagre allowance had come through. She got up, leaving Simon asleep. She cashed a cheque at the bank, and bought croissants and orange juice. In spite of a bitter east wind, the snow was melting, dripping off the houses, turning brown and stacked in great piles along the road.

It would be spring soon. She imagined herself and Simon wandering through the parks with the blossom out, or punting under long green willows, and dancing till dawn at a Commem ball. All great love affairs had their teething troubles.

When she got back to Simon’s rooms, she took his mail into his room. He was still half asleep, so she went to the kitchen and made coffee and heated up the croissants. She was worried about a large spot that was swelling up on the side of her nose. However much make-up she put over it, it shone through like a beacon; she must start eating properly.

When she took breakfast into his room, he had woken up and was in excellent form.

‘Buxton Philips’s written me a letter saying he’s sorry, he’s coming down to Oxford to take me out to lunch,’ he said, draining a glass of orange juice.

‘Oh darling, that’s wonderful,’ said Harriet.

Simon drew back the curtains. Harriet sat down on the bed, with the spot side furthest away from him, pouring out coffee.

‘I think you’d better start packing, darling,’ he said, liberally buttering a croissant.

‘Oh God, is your mother coming to stay?’

He shook his head, his face curiously bland. ‘I just think it’s time you moved out.’

She looked at him bewildered, the colour draining from her face.

‘But, why? Was it because I smashed your dog, and let out your bath water, and forgot about your suit, and the moussaka? I’m sorry, I will try to concentrate more.’

‘Darling, it isn’t that,’ he said, thickly spreading marmalade. ‘It’s just that all good things come to an end. You should live a little, learn a bit more about life, play the field.’

‘But I’m not like that. I’m a one-man girl.’

Simon shrugged his shoulders.

‘W-when will I see you,’ she was trembling violently now.

‘You’re making this very difficult for me,’ he said gently.

She sat down.

‘Mind my shirts,’ said Simon hastily, removing the shirts she had ironed from the chair.

She stared at him. ‘What did I do wrong?’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, you didn’t do anything wrong.’

It must be a bad dream, it must be. She felt her happiness melting round her like the snow.

‘Why can’t I see you any more?’

‘Darling, for everything there is a reason. You’re a lovely warm crazy girl, and we’ve had a ball together. Now I’ve broken you in nicely, you’ll be a joy for the next guy, but it’s time for us both to move on.’

‘But I love you,’ she stammered.

He sighed. ‘That’s your problem, sweetheart. I never said I loved you. I never pretended this was going to last.’

Her face had a look of pathos and stricken dignity.

‘I don’t believe it,’ she whispered.

Simon was not finding this as easy as he had expected, rather unpleasant in fact. Oh God, why did women get so keen on one? He was nibbling the skin round his thumb nail. He seemed to Harriet to have shrunk in size; there was something about his eyes like an animal at bay.