Then, with a sigh, she sat down at the pink-frilled, kidney-shaped dressing table in the corner of the room and began to slit open the envelopes.
She left the crisp, white, London-postmarked one till last, even though it was addressed to her rather than to Charles or both of them. It was bound to be some boring notice to shareholders, or a statement of account that she would immediately pass onto Charles. As she opened it, her mind was still on the dress bill that the last envelope had contained (was it for the cream suit or the cocktail dress? Charles would be bound to ask her), and for a few moments she didn’t register the words before her.
Then, gradually, they began to impinge upon her consciousness; one by one arresting her attention; bouncing off her brain and mixing themselves up in her mind so that, with a sudden exclamation, half of impatience, half of panic, she closed her eyes, opened them, and forced herself to read the letter, slowly from the beginning.
When she had finished reading it for the first time she thought she might be sick. With customaryself-control, she folded the letter, slid it carefully back into its envelope, and put it with the others. She sat completely still for a moment, staring blankly at her reflection in the mirror, reminding herself that she was a complete ignoramus when it came to financial affairs. No doubt it was all a mistake.
But before she could even finish articulating the thought, her hands had grabbed the envelope again and ripped it open, and she was gazing at the sheet of paper once more, her hands unable to hold it still, her heart thumping, her eyes flickering from the heading at the top of the paper down to the signature and up again, focusing first with disbelief, then with terror, at the figure, in pounds sterling, glaring in black and white in the middle of the page.
She closed her eyes for a moment, swaying in her chair, and emptied her mind. Then she opened her eyes again. The letter was still in her hand; the figure in the centre of the page still glared blackly at her, seeming to increase in size until it filled the whole of her view and she could see nothing else. With a sudden smart of humiliation, she clutched her stomach and rushed into the bathroom.
When she emerged again, her legs felt shaky. She looked at herself in the mirror and was shocked to see that her face was white, her lips were dry, her whole face seemed to have crumpled. She longed to lie down,curl up and bury her head in her knees. She sank to the floor of the bedroom and sat still for a few seconds. But she was self-conscious and could not relax. This was a stranger’s house – what if someone came in and saw her behaving oddly? Then a more alarming thought occurred to her. The letter still lay on the dressing table, for anyone to see. With a sudden dart of panic, she looked around for somewhere to store it until she could show it to Charles. At the thought of Charles, another spasm hit her stomach, and she half-crawled, half-ran into the bathroom.
Coming out again, her first priority was to remove the letter from the dressing table. She looked feebly around the room for somewhere to put it. Was Caroline the sort to employ a maid to turn down the beds? One could never be sure of the limit to the excesses of that sort of parvenue. Eventually, she slipped it into the lining of her beauty case. Then, paranoically, she immediately imagined Caroline coming in to borrow some make-up, fiddling with the case, saying loudly, ‘You’ve got something stuck in here,’ pulling it out, reading it, gazing up in horror . . .
But that really was a foolish, hysterical way to think. With the letter safely out of sight, Cressida began to feel better. She slapped her cheeks, combed her hair, and sprayed some scent behind her ears. She rubbed some lipsalve vigorously into her lips and took a fewdeep breaths, as she had been taught in elocution lessons when she was eleven.
But when she went to the door of
She left the crisp, white, London-postmarked one till last, even though it was addressed to her rather than to Charles or both of them. It was bound to be some boring notice to shareholders, or a statement of account that she would immediately pass onto Charles. As she opened it, her mind was still on the dress bill that the last envelope had contained (was it for the cream suit or the cocktail dress? Charles would be bound to ask her), and for a few moments she didn’t register the words before her.
Then, gradually, they began to impinge upon her consciousness; one by one arresting her attention; bouncing off her brain and mixing themselves up in her mind so that, with a sudden exclamation, half of impatience, half of panic, she closed her eyes, opened them, and forced herself to read the letter, slowly from the beginning.
When she had finished reading it for the first time she thought she might be sick. With customaryself-control, she folded the letter, slid it carefully back into its envelope, and put it with the others. She sat completely still for a moment, staring blankly at her reflection in the mirror, reminding herself that she was a complete ignoramus when it came to financial affairs. No doubt it was all a mistake.
But before she could even finish articulating the thought, her hands had grabbed the envelope again and ripped it open, and she was gazing at the sheet of paper once more, her hands unable to hold it still, her heart thumping, her eyes flickering from the heading at the top of the paper down to the signature and up again, focusing first with disbelief, then with terror, at the figure, in pounds sterling, glaring in black and white in the middle of the page.
She closed her eyes for a moment, swaying in her chair, and emptied her mind. Then she opened her eyes again. The letter was still in her hand; the figure in the centre of the page still glared blackly at her, seeming to increase in size until it filled the whole of her view and she could see nothing else. With a sudden smart of humiliation, she clutched her stomach and rushed into the bathroom.
When she emerged again, her legs felt shaky. She looked at herself in the mirror and was shocked to see that her face was white, her lips were dry, her whole face seemed to have crumpled. She longed to lie down,curl up and bury her head in her knees. She sank to the floor of the bedroom and sat still for a few seconds. But she was self-conscious and could not relax. This was a stranger’s house – what if someone came in and saw her behaving oddly? Then a more alarming thought occurred to her. The letter still lay on the dressing table, for anyone to see. With a sudden dart of panic, she looked around for somewhere to store it until she could show it to Charles. At the thought of Charles, another spasm hit her stomach, and she half-crawled, half-ran into the bathroom.
Coming out again, her first priority was to remove the letter from the dressing table. She looked feebly around the room for somewhere to put it. Was Caroline the sort to employ a maid to turn down the beds? One could never be sure of the limit to the excesses of that sort of parvenue. Eventually, she slipped it into the lining of her beauty case. Then, paranoically, she immediately imagined Caroline coming in to borrow some make-up, fiddling with the case, saying loudly, ‘You’ve got something stuck in here,’ pulling it out, reading it, gazing up in horror . . .
But that really was a foolish, hysterical way to think. With the letter safely out of sight, Cressida began to feel better. She slapped her cheeks, combed her hair, and sprayed some scent behind her ears. She rubbed some lipsalve vigorously into her lips and took a fewdeep breaths, as she had been taught in elocution lessons when she was eleven.
But when she went to the door of
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