She’d decided the Bellingers had done enough for her, and although Wendelien had once been such fun, motherhood had claimed her and she talked endlessly about the children, even asked Diana if she would ask one of the photographers she worked with to take some pictures of them. Diana tried to imagine John French’s reaction to such a request and shuddered.
She had been working for him for two days, modelling knitwear. Knitting had shaken off its rather dowdy wartime image, and been reborn as something luxurious and highly fashionable. The ‘chunky knit’ had been invented, with its big bold shape and thick wool. Vogue’s instruction was to ‘buy two sizes larger than usual, and fill in a V-neck with scarves, or rows of pearls’. French didn’t entirely approve of them, although he did admit they were rather fun. He was happier with the other new trend, of tight polo necks tucked into skirt or trousers, although he said they could look ‘just slightly tarty’, adding carefully to Diana, ‘But never on you, darling.’
She could have gone back to Yorkshire that afternoon, but Jamie was away at school and the atmosphere in the house was poisonous. It was all very depressing. The divorce process was under way. She had taken Tom’s advice on a solicitor and was relieved and privately surprised by his choice, half fearing some left-wing personage of rather modest social standing. Hugh Harding was the reverse: public school, middle-aged, extremely courteous, with a Lincoln’s Inn practice and huge experience; he assured her, in response to her anxious questioning about Jamie, that Tom was quite right and it would be extremely unlikely that she would not get custody of Jamie, not least because Johnathan was admitting adultery.
‘So I will write to this firm in York, saying your husband has admitted adultery, and that you want a divorce. I will issue a petition for you in the London Divorce Registry, which is situated in Somerset House in the Strand. Not the jolliest place, I might say, or that section of it – corridors full of weeping women and their solicitors.’
‘I won’t be doing any weeping,’ said Diana firmly. ‘And I have an income of my own.’
‘Indeed, I can see that. You have a London address?’
‘I’m looking for a house to buy in Kensington.’
‘Excellent. After that there will be a lot of other tedious correspondence about the child, property, money, settlements and so on. Now, may I assume that you can offer the child a good home, and that you will be available to take care of him in the holidays? You say he is at prep school. In the case of any brief absences, there will be a nanny?’
‘Yes, of course. I imagine you are referring to my modelling career. I assure you I accept bookings at my own discretion. I would never be away if Jamie was staying with me. Oh, and my parents live on the Surrey–Hampshire borders. He is very fond of them and we can go there together to stay, and ride in the holidays and so on.’
‘That all sounds very satisfactory. Of course, your husband will be entirely responsible for financially supporting the child – school fees, the nanny and so on. Your personal settlement would be a matter for negotiation.’
‘I really don’t want any money from Johnathan,’ said Diana firmly.
‘Mrs Gunning, that would be an extremely unwise path to go down. Let your husband make his offer, and we will consider it. So – is everything clear? Am I to assume I should go ahead?’
She told him he was to assume that and left rather quickly, taking a cab to the Savoy – conveniently close to Lincoln’s Inn – where she ordered a large gin and tonic, and sat in a dark corner of the bar, determined not to cry. She was surprised to find how difficult it was. A deep sadness seized her. Things had gone horribly wrong, but there had been happiness, once. She had walked down the aisle with genuinely good intentions, had been deeply fond of Johnathan, if not actually in love with him. It was – well, it was horrible, all of it; and a future, less glossy, more lonely, lay stretching ahead of her. She wondered if she could ring Tom Knelston. She hadn’t seen him for weeks, and she could thank him for the solicitor. It would be a good excuse. She could cite her need for a friend.
Friendship, she thought, as she looked up his number; it was scarcely a description of her feelings for him. She had, she acknowledged to herself, a serious crush on Tom Knelston. She fancied him to death, and the extreme unlikelihood of a happy outcome for her made it all the more intense. He was so bloody good-looking for a start, with those extraordinary green eyes and dark, dark auburn hair, so exceptionally tall and well built, even given his war-wounded leg – and he had a surprising flair for choosing the clothes that suited him, though he could afford so few. It gave him style, and marked him out as an individualist.
But it was also that he was so sexy – and scarcely aware of it, which increased it a hundredfold. When Tom Knelston’s eyes bored into hers it was not to flirt, it was with a genuinely intense interest. When those eyes wandered over her, explored her cleavage, studied her legs, it was a fearlessly honest appreciation of what she possessed. When – or, far more likely, if – he made a move, advanced physically upon her, it would not be with diffidence, not a request; it would be a sure, steady confidence that she would want him as much as he wanted her.
She was put through quite quickly, always a good sign; and when she had made her request for ‘a chat with a friend’, he agreed almost at once.
‘Alice is –’ He stopped suddenly, and she wondered what on earth he had been going to say. But instead he said, ‘Terribly busy with the children, and then tonight she’s got Jillie Curtis coming round – I’ll be glad to be out of the house.’
Diana wasn’t sure this was a flattering reason for wanting to see her, but she didn’t dwell on it; he was coming, that was what mattered. He even agreed to meet her at Claridge’s; she took that as an encouraging sign. Recklessness often preceded a decision to take things further.
She took a cab back, ordered a half-bottle of champagne from room service, and drank it while lying in the bath. She was fairly drunk, she realised as she got dressed; she hadn’t eaten all day, and the champagne’s effect on her empty stomach was fairly immediate.