street for Jimmy, and for anybody else who might be watching too. She’d been shocked initially by what Dr Rufus told her on the telephone, but as she’d made her way to Jimmy’s place, Vivien had thought she understood: Dolly’s hurt when she imagined herself rejected, her impulse for revenge, her burning desire to reinvent herself and start again. There were people, Vivien was sure, who’d find such a scheme inconceivable, but she wasn’t one of them: she found nothing particularly difficult in believing that a person might go to such lengths if they thought the ends made possible an escape; especially someone like Dolly, who’d been cut adrift by the loss of her family.
The only aspect of Dr Rufus’s story that cut like a knife was Jimmy’s part in it. Vivien refused to believe that everything they’d shared had been pretend. She knew it hadn’t. No matter what had brought Jimmy to her on the street that day, the feelings between them were real. She knew it in her heart, and Vivien’s heart was never wrong. She’d known it that very first night in the canteen, when she’d seen the photograph of Nella, and exclaimed, and Jimmy had looked up and their eyes had met. She knew it, too, because he hadn’t stayed away. She’d given him the cheque—everything Dolly wanted and more—but he hadn’t walked away. He’d refused to let her go.
Jimmy had sent word with a woman Vivien didn’t know, a funny little thing who’d knocked on the front door at 25 Camp-den Grove with a tin in her hand for donations to the Soldiers’ Hospital Fund. Vivien had been about to collect her purse, when the woman shook her head and whispered that Jimmy needed to see her, that he’d meet her here in this railway cafe at two o’clock on Friday. And then the woman had gone and Vivien had felt hope flare inside her before she knew how to stop it—
But—Vivien checked her watch—it was almost three thirty now; he wasn’t coming. She knew it. She’d known it for the past thirty minutes.
Henry would be home in an hour and there were things she had to take care of before he arrived, things that he expected. Vivien stood and tucked the chair beneath the table. Disappointment now was a hundred times worse than it had been the last time she’d left him. But she couldn’t wait longer; she’d already stayed beyond what was safe. Vivien paid for her cup of tea, and with a last glance around the cafe at the other patrons, she pushed her hat down low and hurried back towards Campden Grove.
‘Been out for a walk, have you?’
Vivien stiffened in the entrance hall; she glanced over her shoulder, through the open door to the sitting room. Henry was in the armchair, legs crossed, black shoes gleaming, as he watched her over the top of a thick Ministry report.
‘I …’ Her thoughts swam; he was early. She was sup-posed to greet him at the door when he arrived home, hand him his whisky and ask about his day. ‘It’s such lovely weather. I couldn’t resist.’
‘Go through the park?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled, trying to still the rabbit in her chest. ‘The tulips are in bloom.’
‘Are they?’
‘Yes.’
He lifted his report again, covering his face, and Vivien let herself exhale. She remained where she was but only for a second, only to be sure. Careful not to move too quickly, she set her hat down on the stand, removed her scarf, and walked as smoothly as she could, away.
‘See any friends while you were out?’ Henry’s voice stopped her as she reached the bottom step.
Vivien turned slowly; he was leaning, casually, against the sitting- room doorjamb, smoothing his moustache. He’d been drinking; there was something in his manner, a looseness that she recognised, that made her stomach swoop with dread. Other women, she knew, found Henry attractive, that dark, almost sneering expression, the way his eyes refused to let theirs go; but Vivien didn’t. She never had. Ever since the night they met, when she’d thought herself alone by the lake at Nordstrom and looked up to find him leaned against the pool house, staring at her while he smoked. There’d been something in his eyes as he watched her, lust, of course, but something besides. It had made her skin crawl. She saw it in them now. ‘Why, Henry, no,’ she said, as lightly as she could; ‘Of course not. You know I haven’t time