The Factory Girl. Nancy Carson

Managing Director, isn’t he?…Thought so…Talked for ages. Missed the race completely.’

      ‘I see that Douglas Fairbanks’s son has married,’ Gladys said irrelevantly, directing her comment at Henzey, who so far had said little, guessing that it would bring her into the conversation.

      This was more in Henzey’s line. She took advantage of the prompt, and swallowed her piece of fish. ‘Yes, and he’s only nineteen,’ she replied as if she were an authority. ‘That girl he’s married, though, Joan Crawford, is much older. Twenty-three, according to the paper.’

      ‘Do you not condone a man marrying a girl some years older than himself, Henzey?’ Neville asked, evidently preferring this conversation.

      She looked at him, with his unfashionable long hair and thick, full beard, and their eyes met momentarily. In that brief instant she saw such an appealing look of soulfulness in his eyes. ‘Well, I just can’t see what contentment she would find marrying a boy so much younger than herself, that’s all,’ she remarked. ‘I prefer men a bit older than me. Younger men always seem so boyish.’

      ‘I see. You seem to have a very mature outlook for someone so young. So…how long have you known Billy?’

      Neville was regarding her keenly; it seemed he could not take his eyes off her and she found it disconcerting.

      ‘Oh, quite a long time now, but we’ve only been courting about three months.’ She smiled politely, then finished her last piece of fish, placing her knife and fork together neatly on her plate, ready for it to be collected. She still felt the urge to gather everybody else’s empty plates and stack them in a heap, as she had done on a previous visit to a restaurant. But Billy had told her firmly not to demean herself again by doing the waitress’s job.

      Henzey was not sorry when dinner was finished and they retired to the hotel’s lounge to take coffee. She made for one of the settees which, with another similar one and a couple of armchairs, were grouped convivially around a low, round table. She hoped that Billy would settle beside her, but Neville was too quick and eased himself into the same settee before Billy had even thought about it. Fortunately, Neville was affable and Henzey found him easy to talk to. They spoke politely about this and that and she asked him about his family. He had been married to Eunice for four years and had a young son, he told her as a wine waiter approached seeking orders for brandies.

      ‘You’re a lucky man, Neville,’ Henzey commented, ‘having a lovely child and a beautiful wife who, I imagine, thinks the world of you.’

      ‘Yes, I am a lucky man to have a lovely child…’ He paused deliberately. This lack of acknowledgement of Eunice made Henzey curious, although she ventured no further comment. He continued: ‘Have you and Billy talked of marriage?’

      She shook her head and smiled. ‘After three months? Anyway, I’m too young yet.’

      ‘Sensible, Henzey. Very sensible. Lately, I take a dim view of marriage.’ He spoke quietly, intimately, only to her. ‘I see so many people unhappily bound by its restrictions. I see so many people hurt by the consequences of marital foolishness.’

      ‘Oh, that’s a shame. I’ve never looked at it like that. I’ve only ever known people happy in their marriages. Where they love each other I mean.’

      ‘Oh, love’s a different thing altogether, Henzey. You mustn’t think I take a dim view of love – I certainly do not. To love passionately and be loved in return is a gift of God. But marriage isn’t always like that. Romance can quickly disappear from marriage. It can end up a sham – as nothing more than trying to be nice to each other for the sake of peace and quiet. If you’ll pardon me for being blunt, love-making can degenerate to merely satisfying one’s basic physical needs, usurping the romance and passion you enjoyed before, that you never dreamed would slip away so insidiously.’

      Henzey blushed. ‘I think that’s a cynical view, Neville.’

      ‘Maybe it is…But real passionate love is something quite different, wouldn’t you say? Real passionate love is what makes life worth living. Without it we might as well be dead.’

      ‘I suppose.’ She felt his eyes burning into her again, and she felt uneasy. It was evident he found her appealing, and now it seemed he was sounding her out, assessing his chances. Perhaps love was lacking from his life, inducing him to say these things.

      The wine waiter returned with a tray of brandy glasses, each with an inch or so of the deep amber liquid swishing around.

      ‘What I miss more than anything in my marriage, Henzey,’ he said after he had taken a glass and sipped it, ‘is love. I mean real physical, ardent, energetic love…The sort of love that leaves you breathless and utterly exhausted. But totally satisfied.’

      She avoided his eyes. What was he trying to say? She glanced guiltily at Billy but he was too deeply engrossed in conversation with Eunice to notice. Henzey felt naked under Neville’s scrutiny and felt inclined to cross her legs. It seemed an appropriate thing to do. But, to her surprise, Neville’s words did not offend her. Rather, she found them stimulating. It was a change to hear a man be so direct about love and passion without sounding either sloppy or apologetic.

      ‘You know, you’re a fine-looking girl, Henzey. I hope you don’t mind me saying so…’

      She looked at him and smiled. ‘No, I don’t mind you saying so at all, Neville. I’m very flattered.’

      ‘I look at you and imagine you to be a very passionate young woman, you know. You have that look about you…I don’t mean to offend…It’s just that I do find you extremely attractive. Extremely attractive. Billy’s a jolly, lucky chap. I hope he appreciates you.’

      She shrugged, and smiled. ‘I hope so, too.’

      Neville Worthington picked up his bottle of Exshaw’s No. 1, his favourite brandy, poured himself a last one and took it upstairs to his bedroom. He sat on the bed and loosened his bow-tie with his free hand before taking a sip and placing the glass on his bedside table. As he bent over to untie his shoelaces he sighed heavily. Henzey Kite was occupying his mind. He wanted her, and such ardent desire for a woman had not taken him like this since his first encounters with Eunice. He sighed, kicked off his shoes and stood up again to put away his bow tie and unfasten his cuff-links.

      ‘Don’t forget to put your shoes in your wardrobe, Neville,’ his wife said as she drove a brush through her stylishly cut hair.

      ‘In a minute, when I’m undressed.’

      ‘…Otherwise you’ll fall over them and wake me up if you have to get up in the night.’ Eunice was at her dressing table in her white silk pyjamas. A shop-full of beauty aids stood randomly on top of it. She took one small dainty pot, dipped her fingers into it and proceeded to rub a creamy substance over her face. ‘No doubt you’ll forget them altogether.’

      ‘Well if I do happen to fall over them and wake you in the night, rest assured I shall not tumble into your bed.’

      She made no reply. Neville removed the coins from his trouser pockets and let them tumble onto his tallboy. Then he undressed himself, and took the clean pyjamas the maid had placed on his pillow while he was out.

      ‘I enjoyed this evening, Eunice. Didn’t you?’

      ‘Towards the end. Not during the meal.’

      ‘Actually, I found it all rather stimulating.’

      ‘I suspect you found talking to that young girl rather stimulating. More so than talking to that other woman. What was her name?’

      ‘Henzey.’

      ‘Not Henzey, the older woman.’

      ‘I’ve forgotten.’ He pulled his pyjama trousers on.

      ‘Strange how you can remember Henzey’s name but not that other woman’s.’ Eunice began removing the cleansing cream with a damp face towel.

      Neville