1
A shabby little drawing room with drawn curtains and the New York night pressing in outside. A sense of tired, faded, fraying at the edges, subtly desperate gentility.
Out there in the darkness, there's the Roaring Twenties. Prohibition is a bad joke, and everyone knows it. Out there, there are speakeasies and clandestine deliveries of bootleg whisky and danger and secrecy and covert action. Clicking glasses and popping corks and shameless flirtation and giddy extravagance teetering on the edge of hysteria, and the brandy and the champagne and the sloe gin fizzes are flowing like water.
In here, there's just the two of them. Him and her and an overwhelming sense of disbelief.
She sits and lets his garbled rush of apologies and excuses flow over her. His voice seems to be coming from a long way away, all of a sudden.
She can't believe what he's just told her.
A joke, she thinks distantly, it must be a joke. But she knows at the same time there's no way that's even possible. It would be the cruellest joke in the history of the world, if it was. And the man standing awkwardly across the shabby little drawing room doesn't have a cruel bone in his body. She doesn't need six years of marriage to tell her that. She knew it the day she first met him eight years ago, at the Hobarts' Connecticut summer house. When she first saw him strolling along that impeccably-tended gravel path with a whistle on his lips and a battered old tennis racket swung over his shoulder and not a care in the western world.
In a way, that essential lack of malice shows on his face. He looks like a kid in a way that's hard to place. He's tow-headed, with a stubborn little cowlick that always springs up on top of his head. An open, pleasant, freckled face, an easy boyish smile (although that's nowhere in evidence tonight). And more than any of that, his childlike quality comes from the expression of his face in repose, the way he stands and walks and laughs and just plain is.
He scores zero out of ten when it comes to cruelty and pettiness and vindictiveness and spite.
But a treacherous little voice deep down in her mind –a voice that sounds too much like Aunt Marie for comfort - whispers that he scores a damned-close-to-perfect ninety eight point five per cent when it comes to dumb.
'Come on, Lizzie,' he bursts our desperately, 'say something, say anything. Tell me I'm an asshole, hit me in the face, just – '
She looks at him for a long slow second. He looks maddeningly innocent, maddeningly lost. A sheepish little kid standing, crestfallen and apologetic, by a billion shards of broken cookie jar. Part of her wants to do exactly what he's just invited her to, to hit him and keep on hitting him till she can't move her arm any more. And another, bigger part of her wants to take him in her arms and say it's all right, I won't let anyone hurt you, because even though he's six months her senior, there's always been a maternal edge to her love, something fierce and tender and protective. Something that loves him not in spite of his weaknesses, but actually because of them.
There's a long silence before the sound of her own flat, pragmatic voice takes her by surprise.
'He was kidding you. He must have been.'
And that's something she can believe, cruel or not, because the third party in this situation is an entirely different creature from her lawful wedded husband Rick Buchanan, he belongs to another world from the two of them in every conceivable way. And though she's only seen that man once, maybe four months ago, and fleetingly at that, she can well believe that he'd make a joke like this. She thinks he's capable of just about anything.
A moment's hope - but then the look on Rick's face tells her that she's clutching at straws.
'He wasn't joking. Lizzie. I'd bet my life on it.'
An unfortunate turn of phrase and she can see him realising it a second too late. And she doesn't want to be shrewish, but she's earned her right to be shrewish, this nightmare evening, and she speaks sharply.
'Don't you think you've bet enough already?'
He bites his lip. He hangs his head to look at the floor and the slightly fraying carpet.
'You don't have to do this,' he says. 'I know it's not right for me to ask you. I wouldn't blame you if you left me. Just walked out and left me to it. You know your aunt would take you in.'
He's trying to be all noble and gentlemanly. But she can see, written all over his face, that he doesn't really want her to say thanks, so long then, pack her bags and hand this unthinkable situation right back to him like a fizzing stick of dynamite. He's scared. He's pale beneath his tan, and there's an entirely uncharacteristic tension in the way he's standing and the way he doesn't seem to quite know what to do with his hands.
The sound of her own flat voice takes her by surprise all over again.
'One night.'
He nods quickly, eagerly almost. As if he's trying to convey an undercurrent of it's not that bad really, Lizzie, it's not as bad as it sounds, it's only one night, it's only one night with another man. A man whose name's a byword for dangerous across this whole damned city, and a long way beyond it too.
'That's what he said.'
There's a long, tense, charged pause.
What she wants to say is, don't you ever think? Didn't you think for a second, when you got invited to that notorious gambling club by some spoilt-brat playboy of an old school friend you hadn't seen in years, it might be bad news for a guy without the proverbial pot to piss in? Didn't you think you should maybe hang back a little when all the money-no-object rich boys started throwing their inherited megabucks around at the tables? And when the biggest and most notorious gangster in this city invited you to join his card game, didn't you think you were out of your depth – but no, not at all, you were so flattered, flattered and drunk and reckless, delighted to be playing in that league, to be one of the big boys. And when you started winning you just couldn't stop, and even when the tide turned you still couldn't stop, and by the time the night was over you owed the notorious Arnold Rothstein fifty thousand dollars that might as well be fifty million, and the only way he won't call your debts in and destroy you is if he can spend a night with your wife. With me. You stupid, stupid bastard.
What she actually says is,
'Okay. I'll do it.'
'I knew you wouldn't let me down.' His face lights up as he steps towards her. 'I'm so sorry, Lizzie. If there was any other way, I'd never ask you, but –'
He reaches her and moves to kiss her on the lips. She turns her face aside, and he kisses her cheek instead.
In her mind, the words are echoing, it's just one night.
2
She sits at her dressing table, getting ready. Brushing out her long dark chestnut hair. In the mirror, her brown eyes look like a stranger's. As she looks at her reflection, Aunt Marie's remembered voice fills her mind.
Do you know, you've actually improved with age, girl – I never thought you'd be much to look at when you were younger, but you've turned into quite the beauty. You could make a far better match for yourself now, and I could help you. You made a mistake when you shackled yourself to that ridiculous young fool, and you know perfectly well how furious I was with you at the time, but now -
But what that imperious old grande dame of New York society doesn't understand is, Elizabeth loves him. Why, who knows? All she knows is that she has done since she was sixteen - her shy wallflowerish self at a distant cousin's lavish estate for a weekend-long house party, hovering awkwardly on the outskirts of the giggling and shrieking and flirtation and extravagant entertainments, carrying the van Doren name as she had done all her life. Something eye-catching and embarrassing she had to wear every day, painfully aware that it didn't fit her right or suit her at all. A sort of fraud, and although the name was hers by right as much as it was Aunt Marie's, that seemed a technicality. Because awkward girls with dead bankrupt fathers and haggard anxious mothers who slaved over sewing machines to make their daughter's summer wardrobe and visibly went white every time the bills came didn't have any business bearing a name as exalted as Elizabeth van Doren.
Like her mother, she got invited to all the best parties and tennis weekends and country club balls, but didn't have anything to wear there that didn't instantly mark her out as an outsider.
Unlike her mother, she went, because her mother wouldn't have it any other way.
A good match could transform their fortunes out of all recognition. And good matches happened at social events like these.
But what actually happened was Rick Buchanan. All effortless natural confidence and nonchalance, quite indifferent to the fact that his financial situation was even worse than hers. He could talk to anyone, make anyone laugh, charm anyone, go anywhere.
When he looked at her, he seemed to see something quite different to the plain, mousy, insignificant charity-case relation everyone else saw. And when she looked at him, she saw the man she knew she'd spend the rest of her life with.
When they talked, she forgot all about how shy she was and how she never knew what to say to boys. Conversation with him came just as effortlessly as breathing.
They were in love within the week. Engaged within the year.
The poor relation of one big society family. Dumb enough to marry the even poorer relation of another.
Two romantic young fools. Ideally matched. No wonder, she thought with a flicker of black humour, it had been love at first sight.
And her love for him hadn't changed, even through all the hard times and overdue bills and worries that had followed their wedding day, because his carelessness and wild disorganisation and appalling judgement lost him jobs just as quickly as his charm and confidence and boyish good looks got them for him.
Her love for him hadn't changed. Even though she had.
She knew it was conceited, and possibly even delusional. But at some level deep down inside, she could see the truth of what Aunt Marie had said to her. At sixteen, she'd been as invisible as a little brown sparrow. At some point in the eight years between then and now, she'd unexpectedly blossomed. Men's eyes followed her on the street as they never had done before. The attention should have flattered her, but actually made her feel a bit uncomfortable. She wasn't used to it at all, she wasn't anyone's idea of a flirt. She loved Rick, and wasn't remotely interested in anyone else. She'd never felt the slightest flicker of interest in another man since they'd married.
Except, that one night -
By some sneaky circuitous route, her train of thought's brought her back to the exact subject she's been trying to hide away from.
She finds herself remembering the night when she saw him.
Arnold Rothstein.
The man she's – unthinkably, shockingly, inescapably – supposed to be spending tonight with.
It had been in one of the city's most lavish speakeasies. A far more flashy, fast sort of place than she usually went to. She and Rick had been invited there by Rick's louche cousin Bobby, who moved in altogether more glitzy (and occasionally sleazy) circles than Mr and Mrs Rick Buchanan were used to.
Sitting at the table with Bobby and his showgirl girlfriend Gloria, Elizabeth had looked around the crowded, lavishly decorated, rosily-lit room, feeling both fascinated and miles out of her depth. Dispiritingly aware of how dowdy and old-fashioned she must look with her tied-back hair, in her plain blue cotton dress. All the other women in evidence were as colourful as birds of paradise, bedecked in dazzling jewellery and scandalously low-cut evening gowns that glittered with sequins. All the men in evidence were suave and authoritative in crisp black and white evening dress.
'See that guy at that table over there?' Gloria had whispered to her. 'He's the biggest gangster in this city, which means in America, which means like anywhere. They say he's worth more than a hundred million dollars and there's not a speakeasy in town he doesn't own. Name's Arnold Rothstein. You must have heard of him, right?'
Elizabeth had. Vaguely. To her, it was a name that implied nonspecific menace and notoriety, but nothing more than that. Her eyes went over to the table Gloria had discreetly indicated.
'Which one is he?' she asked curiously.
'Dark hair, grey waistcoat. Next to the bald guy with the big cigar.'
Elizabeth focused in on him. The notorious Mr Rothstein was younger than she'd have imagined, perhaps thirty or thirty-five. His dark hair was sleeked back from a pale, aquiline face. He was dressed to kill in an immaculate high-collared white shirt, a black bow tie, a flawlessly-tailed black jacket and a charcoal-grey waistcoat. He was clearly at the centre of the noisy table, controlling it in a way that was hard to define, even though he wasn't talking. He had an air of unflappable, poised and watchful elegance – detached, self-contained and distant. As if he was both there and somewhere else at the same time.
She knew it was silly, but as her eyes lingered on him, a momentary chill went through her body.
She suddenly thought that if that man was the lion of the urban jungle, she was happy to be an insignificant gazelle. It was better that way. Safer.
'Excuse me for one moment,' she said to Gloria, 'I have to go and powder my nose.'
The washrooms were out of the way of the main bar and restaurant area. They were located down a long, wide, quiet corridor that was as ostentatiously elegant as everything else here. There were ornate gold wall-mounted lamps, a thick red carpet, and red and gold patterned silk wallpaper. All that red gave a strange quality to the light, Elizabeth though, as if it was shining in through glass the colour of blood.
She emerged from the ladies' room, and began heading back to the table.
And saw him coming down the corridor in the opposite direction.
The man Gloria had pointed out at the table. Arnold Rothstein.
Their eyes met as they walked towards each other. She felt suddenly flustered and jumpy as she realised he was looking right at her, and making no attempt to disguise his scrutiny. The expression on his pale, handsome, aquiline face was cool, searching and appraising. It unnerved her and made her feel like blushing. She wanted to pull her own eyes away from him, but for an endless second, it was as if she somehow couldn't. His eyes were so dark, it was as if they were all pupil in this eerie red light. Hooded, unreadable. They seemed to hypnotise her.
She was shocked - astonished - to feel a slow cold tingling feeling spreading over her whole body, Seeming to begin from that secret place between her legs, and creeping outwards from there.
The feeling was horrible. Frightening but weirdly thrilling at the same time. It was something she'd never felt before. She'd never felt anything like it.
Closer and closer they came to each other down the silent red corridor. Up close, he was bigger than she'd thought. Tall and broad shouldered, but slim with it. He carried himself with a grace and an elegance that was intimidating in a subtle way. There was no swagger or overt menace there. Just the quiet assurance of some sleek and lethal big cat.
Above all, there was an indescribable presence to this man. A watchful, enigmatic stillness that seemed to run fathoms deep.
As they drew level, he gave her a slow, lazy half-smile.
'Good evening,' he said in a low well-spoken voice that was as calm and smooth and assured as the rest of him.
Her heart was suddenly pounding inside her. So loudly, she thought he must be able to hear it on the silence that surrounded them.
'Good evening,' she said uncertainly.
Then he was walking on, and so was she. Quickening her pace, obscurely shaken and breathless. As if something very important - even shocking - had just taken place.
Little by little, her heartbeat began to slow down. When she got back to the table, she never mentioned the encounter to Rick or anyone else. Why should she? There was nothing to mention. Arnold Rothstein had just smiled at her and said good evening. No matter how strangely the man had affected her, nothing untoward had taken place...
There's a flicker of movement in the mirror in front of her. It pulls her back to the present tense, hard. She turns her head. Rick's standing in the doorway.
'I'm sorry, Lizzie,' he says quietly.
'I know,' she says – then, with an effort, 'it's okay. I'll be okay.'
'It's just one night, after all,' he says.
There's a long, tense silence.
'The car'll be here soon,' he says.
'I know,' she says. 'I'm almost ready.'