Zelda’s Cut. Philippa Gregory

said. ‘I so seldom eat at home, it seemed stupid having a room standing empty.’

      ‘Where do you eat?’ Isobel asked.

      ‘Oh, restaurants with people, or quite often at parties,’ he said vaguely. ‘Or dinner parties, you know.’

      Isobel nodded but she did not know. She was invited regularly to literary parties, but she did not like to go alone, and standing around and talking was obviously unsuitable for Philip’s condition. In any case he hated those sorts of social occasions. The few parties they had attended when Isobel’s career was starting to take off, before Philip was ill, had been uncomfortable for them both. Philip regarded any other author as a rival to his wife, and any attention paid to any other writer as a snub to his wife. He tried to defend her by loudly decrying everyone else’s work. He was shy in a room full of strangers and his shyness took the form of abruptness, almost rudeness. Equally, he felt insulted that people would ask him briefly what he did and yet have no genuine interest in his experiences, in his lifetime’s work in the pharmaceutical industry. Their eyes slid past him to Isobel, they expected him to introduce her and then stand back.

      What made this even more galling was that Isobel would never have written in the first place without Philip’s encouragement. In the early days she used to read to him in the evening and he would often suggest a change or a correction. He thought deeply about the things that she cared about. He had skills of critical reading and self-discipline which he taught her. He bought her a word processor and introduced her to it, helping her to make the transition from her old typewriter. He encouraged her to write every day, whether or not she was in the mood. To find that she was now something of a celebrity and he relegated to the position of driver and handbag carrier was quite unbearable. His sudden illness put an end to Isobel’s social success and his descent into second place, and spared them both the challenge of maintaining a husband’s pride when his wife was suddenly regarded as more interesting, more successful and, even worse, a better earner.

      Philip’s illness kept him at home, protected him from Isobel’s fame. It kept her at home, too.

      ‘You could come up to town more than you do,’ Troy remarked.

      ‘It’s the trains,’ Isobel said easily. ‘And I don’t like to leave Philip too often.’

      ‘Oh yes, how is he?’ Troy uncorked a bottle of white wine and poured them both a glass.

      ‘Just the same,’ Isobel said. ‘If things go well tomorrow then perhaps I’ll make enough money to put in a swimming pool. He thinks that would really make a difference. There have been some studies. Heat and exercise in buoyancy can really make a difference, apparently.’

      ‘And what is it that he’s got, exactly?’ Troy said. ‘Sorry, I feel I should know, but I really don’t. He’s been ill ever since I first knew you. I never really liked to ask.’

      He saw how the very question drained her of energy. Her face grew grey with weariness. ‘Nobody knows. That’s the hardest thing about it. He has some kind of neurological malfunction which is rather rare. Nobody knows quite what causes it, it could be genetic, or it could be a virus, or it could be an allergy. What it means is that the part of the brain which activates the big muscle groups, arms, legs, sort of misfires. The messages don’t get through. So the muscles weaken and waste. The real struggle is to keep mobile. Swimming would be ideal, and he does exercises and walks every day. He’s very brave.’

      ‘What’s the prognosis?’

      ‘That’s part of the difficulty. Nobody knows for sure. Some people just get spontaneously better – about a third of people get better. About a third get very bad and then stay there. And the final third get weaker and weaker and then die. We know now that he’s not got the worst case, he won’t die. But we didn’t know that for the first two years.’ She made a little grimace of pain. ‘That was the worst time, but in a way it was a good time. We were very passionate together, because every day was precious. We really felt that we were on borrowed time. But now …’ She broke off. ‘Now we don’t know how he’ll be over the next few years.’ She made her voice cheerful. ‘He could stay the same. Or he could get better, you see. He could get better tomorrow. He won’t die. It’ll probably be like this forever.’

      Troy looked across the worktop at her with compassion. ‘But it means that you’re only fifty, and married to a man who won’t ever take you dancing.’

      ‘Dancing’s the least of it,’ she said quietly.

      There was a brief silence and then Isobel found a smile from somewhere. ‘There’s no point grieving over it,’ she said briskly. ‘I made my mind up to it years ago. I was sure he was going to die when he first had it. I promised myself then that if he was spared, if we were spared, that I would be happy. I would make him happy. This is so much better than it might have been.’

      ‘Oh yes,’ Troy assented emphatically, privately thinking that it was not.

      At eight thirty in the morning Troy called Isobel; but she had been awake for an hour, listening to the unaccustomed noise of the London street, nursing a hangover, and wishing she felt free to go to the kitchen and make herself a cup of tea.

      He opened the bedroom door and presented her with a cup of pale green liquid smelling of straw. ‘Herbal tea,’ he said. ‘To get you in the mood.’

      ‘I’m terrified,’ Isobel said.

      ‘You’ll be wonderful. You were wonderful yesterday and that was only a practice.’

      ‘And there’ll be no-one who has ever met me? No-one from Penshurst Press?’

      ‘Penshurst!’ He waved them away. ‘They don’t have the kind of money we’re looking for here. They’re a small-time literary house. We’re playing with the major league here.’

      Isobel nodded and leaned back against the pillows.

      ‘You’re pale,’ he said with sudden concern. ‘Feeling all right?’

      ‘I have a hangover,’ she confessed. Philip would have been shocked and disapproving.

      ‘Oh yes,’ Troy said. ‘I’ll get you something. We did go it a bit.’

      He disappeared from the bedroom and came back with a small effervescing drink. ‘Here you are. And I’ve run you a hot bath. As soon as you’ve had it we’ll have breakfast and then start to get Zelda ready. She needs to be beautiful by ten o’clock. The first editors are here at ten thirty.’

      ‘Isn’t that awfully early?’ asked Isobel, who had learned over the years that it was impossible to reach the editors at her publishing house much before eleven in the morning.

      Troy grinned. ‘They’re hungry. They’ll be here.’

      ‘You make me sound like a picnic,’ Isobel remarked.

      ‘Zelda is,’ he said, lingering on her name. ‘Zelda is a picnic and a dinner and a drink all rolled into one. Zelda is cordon bleu, and everybody wants her.’

      Isobel, perfumed, blonde-headed, perfectly made up and dressed in the pink suit with the pink mules, was draped over the sofa at ten fifteen, and at ten thirty the first editors came in. She did not get up from her seat but merely lifted a languid hand to them. The woman shook hands, but the man was so overcome that he kissed the well-manicured fingertips and then sat down opposite her and gazed.

      ‘How much of this is based on real life?’ Susan Jarvis, the senior editor, asked.

      Zelda Vere smiled. ‘It’s fiction, of course.’

      ‘But I would guess that you have had some kind of experience with a Satanic cult?’ Susan pressed.

      Zelda’s gesture indicated an invisible wall before her. ‘I based the novel on my research and my own intuitive sense,’ she said. ‘And on my experiences, of course.’

      In this country?’ Susan hinted.

      ‘In this country, and