Voice of the Heart

CHAPTER FOUR

The bedroom of the Avery duplex overlooked Fifth Avenue and the park. It was large, airy and light, an oasis of pale green highlighted with white. Cool and restful, the room was accented with touches of yellow, pink and blue, all fresh bright colours that might have been plucked from a bouquet of English flowers.

Apple-green watered silk covered the walls, and framed the two windows with long tied-back draperies and handsome matching valances. There were several Louis XVI bergères and a small Louis XVI sofa grouped in a semi-circle in front of the white marble fireplace.

It was a cheerful, happy room, one that reflected Francesca’s naturally sunny, outgoing personality and her serene disposition, as well as her good taste. But her demeanour was less tranquil than normal as she closed the door firmly behind her and hurried across the floor. She sank gratefully into one of the chairs near the fireplace and leaned back, waiting for the trembling of her limbs to subside. She was unaccustomed to such flagrant displays of emotion, whether by herself or others, had an abhorrence of turbulent scenes, which she found uncivilized and distressing. She was not only horrified by Estelle’s duplicity and her virulent tirade, but aghast at her own loss of control, finding this to be immature, and also demeaning. She closed her eyes, attempting to gather her disordered senses, to restore her equilibrium and calm herself in readiness for the evening. No sooner had she begun to relax when the telephone on the bedside table began to ring, making her start. Reluctantly, she roused herself from her reverie, and went to answer it. ‘Hello?’

‘Francesca darling, Nelson here. It’s a very bad night. Snowing like the devil. I’ve sent a car for you. Dayson just left.’

‘Oh, Nelson, that’s so thoughtful of you.’ Her hand flew to her pearls and she played with them nervously. ‘I’m afraid I’m running terribly late. I haven’t changed yet. I was awfully delayed by an appointment. I’m so sorry. I’ll be as quick as I can – ‘

‘What’s wrong, Francesca?’ he interrupted. They had been friends for a number of years before she had married his elder brother, and he knew and understood her with a precision and insight that was rare.

‘Nothing. Truly, Nelson. Just a rather troublesome afternoon with a difficult journalist who came to interview me.’ She sat down on the bed and kicked off her shoes, flexing her toes.

‘Oh! From which publication?’

‘Now Magazine. She was a little hostile, but I’m sure there is nothing to worry about. Honestly, it’s all right.’

‘That’s owned by Everett Communications. Tommy Everett is one of my oldest friends. Spent all of our summers together in Bar Harbor when we were boys. Tommy is also a client of the bank. And it just so happens I’m a major stockholder of Everett Communications.’ He chuckled and, taking control in his usual masterful manner, continued: ‘So you see, there’s no problem. I’ll talk to Tommy right now. Call him at home, in fact. I’ll have the story killed and the journalist fired immediately. I’m not going to have you hounded by that particular magazine and disturbed in this way. It’s perfectly outrageous. What’s the name of the journalist?’

Francesca hesitated and, ignoring the question, said, ‘No, don’t do anything, Nelson. Please. At least not at the moment. I’m not really worried about the story. I’ll discuss it with you this evening, and then we can decide.’

Nelson sighed, knowing better than to press the point with her. ‘Just as you wish, darling. But I don’t like you to be so perturbed. And don’t deny it either, because I can tell from your voice that you are.’

‘Nelson, there’s something else – ‘ She took a deep breath and said, ‘Katharine Tempest wants to see me.’ As she spoke Francesca acknowledged to herself that this was the real reason for her distress.

A prolonged silence at the other end of the telephone. And then, ‘I knew she would turn up again one day, like the damned bad penny she is. She’s a troublemaker, Francesca. I sincerely hope you are not going to see her.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘The right decision, darling. Now, if you hurry, you’ll arrive before the other guests and we can have a quiet chat about all this. Dayson should be there in about twenty minutes to half an hour, depending on the traffic. It was bad earlier, when I came up from Wall Street. See you shortly.’ As an afterthought, he added quietìy, ‘And don’t dwell on Katharine Tempest. She’s not worth it. Dismiss her from your mind.’

‘Yes, I will. Thank you, Nelson.’

There was no time to waste if she was to be ready when the car arrived and Francesca did as Nelson suggested, turning her thoughts away from Katharine Tempest as she went into her dressing room. She undressed quickly, supped into a towelling robe and sat down at the dressing table to attend to her face and hair, working with concentration on her appearance.

At one moment she did pause to think about Estelle, and discovered, much to her amazement, that her anger had abated considerably. Her mind strayed back to the interview, and she ruminated on the outcome. Estelle had protested her innocence of any deviousness, arguing that she fully intended to write the story. But Francesca was not entirely convinced of the veracity of this statement, still believing the journalist had connived, and had entered her home under false pretences. On the other hand, she might be genuinely sincere about doing the piece. It struck Francesca then, and with an uneasy jolt, that it would be relatively easy for Estelle to do a vicious hatchet job on her, simply by making her appear to be the spoiled, pampered and indolent wife of a very rich and powerful man, who took up charities out of perpetual boredom. Estelle could make her look ridiculous, and there was no more devastating weapon than ridicule, especially in print. All those questions about her clothes, her home, her servants and her life in general, apparently so meaningless on the surface, now gained greater significance.

Worry clouded Francesca’s eyes. Undoubtedly Estelle was not very bright in certain areas, and she was obviously living in a world of fantasy. Yet she was also a clever journalist with a flair for words, and there was no denying her fervid hostility. She might be motivated by sheer maliciousness to dip her pen in venom, and that could prove to be embarrassing to Harrison, not to mention the charity. She bit her lip, attempting to outguess Estelle, and then gave up, knowing it to be a fruitless task. And, of course, there was always Nelson, ready to interfere.

Over the years Francesca had acquired a sense of irony about life, and now she thought: Poor pathetic Estelle, playing out of her league again. How little she knows about the power brokers in this town, the most influential of whom is Nelson. Not only in New York, but from coast to coast. He could demolish Estelle with one telephone call. But Francesca was too big a woman to be vindictive, and she had no wish to deprive anyone of a livelihood, particularly an unfortunate creature like Estelle. And so, for these reasons, she now decided she must exercise prudence, speak with the utmost caution to Nelson when he questioned her about the interview later. Otherwise he would act with lightning speed, out of fierce protection and love for her, wielding his immense power to Estelle’s detriment. Perhaps she was being foolish and soft-hearted in view of Estelle’s reprehensible behaviour, but for the moment she thought it wiser to keep her own counsel. She wanted to analyse the situation before making any moves and enlisting Nelson’s help. And if she did resort to the latter, it would be with the understanding that the only action to be taken was the suppression of the story.

Francesca brought her gaze back to the selection of cosmetics in front of her. She picked up a pot of silver eyeshadow and smoothed the merest trace of it on her lids, added several layers of brown mascara to her lashes, and then outlined her mouth with soft peach lipstick. She sat back, looking in the mirror with a critical eye and decided Val was right; she did seem peaked. Rectifying her pallor with a light stroking of rouge on her high cheekbones, she then lifted the silver-backed brush and ran it through her hair several times, and finally completed her toilet with a few sprays of Joy perfume. As she rose the intercom buzzed. It was Val, announcing the arrival of the car.

‘Thank you, Val. Tell Dayson I’ll be down shortly. I’m not quite ready.’

Having selected her clothes for the evening earlier in the day, Francesca was dressed within seconds, and she added the two strands of opera-length pearls she invariably wore, along with the other jewellery she had taken out of the safe that morning. As with the necklace, none of these pieces was ostentatious or elaborate, just plain pearl studs for her ears, a simple pearl bracelet with a coral clasp, and a coral-and-pearl ring she slipped on next to her platinum wedding band. A peach silk evening bag, identically matched to her high-heeled silk pumps, lay on the dressing table. She put in her keys and a few items she required for the evening, picked it up and moved towards the door.

On an impulse she turned, and walked back to the far end of the dressing room. Here it widened into a more spacious area and became a deep, relatively large alcove. This was fined with closets running from the floor to the ceiling on all three walls, and they were entirely sheathed with mirrors that created a glittering cocoon of shimmering light and reflections, this effect intensified by hidden spots in the ceiling.

Francesca paused in the centre of the alcove to view herself full length. After a moment’s consideration she frowned and shook her head, suddenly dissatisfied with the way she looked, although she was not quite certain why. Unless it was the dress which was new and had never been worn before. Like all her clothes this was understated and simple, a rippling column of peach-coloured panne velvet, cut like a Roman tunic and falling to the floor in straight fluid lines. The long wide sleeves helped to soften its basic severity, the square-shaped neckline beautifully emphasized her slender stem-like neck, and the off-centre slit in the skirt revealed enough of her right leg to lend a dash of sophistication. There was no question in her mind that the dress was elegant, and perfectly suitable for Nelson’s intimate dinner party. And yet there was something she was not sure about, something which troubled her, and she wondered whether to change into another gown, even though she was running late.

She turned from side to side, looking at herself appraisingly from all angles, and finally made a long slow turn. It was then that Francesca saw her reflection doubled, tripled and quadrupled. An infinity of images in an infinity of mirrors assaulted her eyes, and she was confronted by a dizzying number of Francescas encased in a sliver of supple peach velvet. Peach from head to toe. Peach. She caught her breath and drew closer to the central mirror, staring intently, and a look of surprise mixed with dawning comprehension spread across her face. It was not the style of the dress that disturbed her, but the colour. Of course that was it. She had not worn peach for years, over twenty years to be exact.

And as she continued to gaze at herself, mesmerized by the peach dress, up from the inner recesses of her mind there was dredged a memory, a memory so carefully, so deliberately and so deeply buried it had lain dormant for years.

A scene enacted two decades before leapt out of her mind, was projected onto the mirror with such blinding accuracy and clarity that Francesca was propelled instantly backwards into the past. And she saw herself from a long distance, as she had once been.

A night sky. Smooth. Still. Flashed with brilliant stars. A perfect Mediterranean sky. A balmy breeze. The brinish smell of the sea mingling with the scent of honeysuckle and night-blooming jasmine and eucalyptus. Candlelight glowing. Francesca sitting on the long white marble terrace of the Villa Zamir, on the promontory at Cap Martin. Francesca weeping. Katharine hovering solicitously. Katharine apologizing over and over again for being clumsy. Katharine doing nothing to help, but hovering, always hovering. Francesca barely listening. Francesca gazing in stupefied horror at the wine Katharine had spilled on her. Watching the stain seep down from the bodice on to the skirt, a red and violent stain, like fresh blood on the peach organza evening frock. A floating, romantic, dreamlike frock her father could scarcely afford. Ruined before the dance had even begun. Kim, handsome in his dinner jacket, hurrying to her with salt and soda water. And Nick Latimer arriving. Nicky mopping up Francesca’s tears, trying to be jocular and making a bad joke about tragic heroines. Her father. Sweet, consoling, concerned, but quite helpless. Doris Asternan. Her face cold with anger. Doris camouflaging the damage with a trailing spray of honeysuckle entwined with roses quickly picked from the garden. The flowers. Hardly covering the stain and wilting too soon. Francesca’s tears. Dripping on to the dress to mingle with the stain. Francesca weeping inconsolably because she had wanted to be beautiful for Victor. Francesca waiting. Waiting for Vic, who did not come. Francesca’s heart breaking …

Francesca snapped her eyes tightly shut to block out the scene, not wanting to remember any more about the past. The past was irrelevant, it no longer mattered to her. An instant later she opened her eyes and stepped swiftly away from the mirror, and she saw again a woman of forty-two, the woman she had become in the intervening years. Attractive, elegant and coolly poised. And infinitely wiser than she had been then.

She turned on her heel and left for Nelson’s dinner party.

Sleep eluded her.

Since her return from Nelson’s house several hours ago she had restlessly tossed around in the bed, unable to find repose, her eyes wide open and staring into the filtered greyness of the room. Finally, in exasperation, she sat up, turned on the light and got out of bed. Slipping into her robe, she went downstairs to the kitchen. She made herself a cup of hot milk and carried it back upstairs to the bedroom, where she sat drinking it, huddled in a chair near the fireplace, enveloped in introspection, unaware of the time or the chill in the air.

Slowly, and with some deliberation, Francesca reviewed the events of the afternoon, carefully weighing and analysing all that had happened, all that had been said. And inevitably her mind came to rest on Katharine Tempest, for she had begun to realize, during these long dawn hours, that she had over-reacted to the news of the woman’s impending return to New York and request for a meeting.

She did not want anything to disrupt or threaten her orderly and contented life. The life she had so painstakingly created with Harrison and his family. A life she enjoyed, and was comfortable living, and one she was determined to protect at all cost. Nelson was correct in his assessment of her former friend. Wherever Katharine Tempest went she dragged trouble in her wake. No, Katharine could not be permitted to enter her life again.

A sigh of deep sadness broke the heavy silence in the shadow-filled room. She and Katharine had been so very close once, inseparable for years, until that ugly denouement when everything had erupted so explosively and the loving friendship had ended abruptly, and with acrimony. They had not seen each other since that day, over ten years ago, and during this time Francesca had schooled herself not to think of Katharine, and eventually, as the years passed, she had succeeded in achieving her goal. And she had forgiven Katharine long ago, forgiven her for so many things, in the wisdom of her own growing maturity. But seemingly she had not forgotten. She understood that now.

Memories began to assail her. Memories of other times, other places, other people. She endeavoured to push them aside, clearly recognizing that memories were ineluctably treacherous. Particularly memories of Katharine, for they were shrouded in a web of turbulent emotions and raw feelings, and they evoked pain, the pain of Katharine’s own treachery and betrayal of her. But Katharine had not always been like that. Not in the beginning. She had been different then. They had all been different at that point in time.

At that point in time. Francesca repeated the phrase to herself, and she thought: There is no past, no present, no future. Time is not circumscribed. Albert Einstein proved that time is a dimension. The fourth dimension. Therefore all time exists now.

The decades dissolved. It was a gradual dissolve, like a film running in slow motion before her eyes, and everyone was in perfect focus, and brilliantly captured on the film of her memory – the way they were then. And the year 1956 was as real to Francesca as it had been twenty-three years ago.

It was now.

Act One Downstage Right 1956

‘The most decisive actions of our life … are most often unconsidered actions.’

ANDRE GIDE

CHAPTER FIVE

‘Don’t be an old stick-in-the-mud,’ Kim said with a genial smile, lolling nonchalantly against the door frame. ‘You just said you don’t have a date this evening. Come on, Francesca, be a good sport.’

Francesca was seated behind the large cluttered desk in the upstairs study of their father’s London house. She put down the pen she was holding and leaned back in the chair, regarding her brother with affection. She was amazed to discover that for once in her life she did not feel like being a good sport, not even for her adored Kim. She had been working all day, and now, in the late afternoon, she was exhausted yet determined to finish what she had set out to do that morning. Her brother’s unexpected arrival had surprised her, so absorbed was she in her papers.

Conscious he was waiting for a response, she shook her head, and said in a weary voice that was also surprisingly firm, ‘I’d like to help you, Kim, but I simply can’t. I have to finish this research. I really do. I’m sorry.’

‘You and your mouldy old books!’ Kim exclaimed in goodnatured exasperation. ‘Whenever I see you these days you’re peering into them as if your life depended on it. Who cares about Chinese Gordon anyway? If the old geezer hadn’t been dead for hundreds of years I’d say you had some sort of girlish crush on him. I don’t see the point – ‘

‘Gordon hasn’t been dead for hundreds of years,’ Francesca interrupted mildly enough, but her eyes were intense. ‘Seventy-one years, to be precise,’ she went on, ‘and anyway, you know very well I am going to write a biography about him one day.’

‘You’re wasting your time, my girl. Nobody will buy it.’

‘Yes they will!’ Francesca retorted fiercely, her weariness instantly dissipating. ‘There are a lot of people who are interested in British history, and a great soldier and hero like Chinese Gordon. I intend to take a fresh approach, to delve into the psychology of the man. It will be a modern study, and I’m going to write it in such a way it will make very popular reading. Father agrees with me. He thinks it will work, and that it might even be commercial. So there, Kim Cunningham! Shoo! Go away and leave me in peace.’

Kim was taken aback by her vehemence, and he realized, for the first time, that she was in earnest about the book, a project she had talked about for some months. Inwardly he reproached himself for his remark, which had been made in an off-hand manner, and thoughtlessly so. He had not only given offence, but hurt her, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. Apart from being his sister and very dear to him, Francesca was his best friend and confidante, and they had always been inseparable.

He tried to be conciliatory. ‘I’m sorry, Francesca darling. I didn’t mean to be dismissive. Father is undoubtedly right.’ He flashed her a wide smile tinged with self-mockery. ‘What do I know about books? I’m not blessed with intellectual capacities, like you and the old man. You’ve got all the brains in the family, my love. What’s a dull farmer like me to do?’ He grimaced and went on, ‘My only excuse is that I didn’t quite understand how serious you were about the book. I will be supportive, I promise. Truce?’

Francesca managed a watery smile and a nod, not trusting herself to speak. She buried her head in the papers, so that he would not see her incipient tears.

Aware of her discomfiture, Kim wisely remained silent. He positioned himself in front of the fireplace, warming his back, his long legs spread wide apart, his hands thrust into the pockets of his tweed jacket. Made of fine cloth and tailored in the best Savile Row tradition, this had long since seen better days, was worn and out of shape. But Kim had such an air of distinction about him, wore the jacket with such panache, its shabbiness was hardly noticeable.

Adrian Charles ‘Kim’ Cunningham, the 14th Viscount Ingleton, who would one day become the 12th Earl of Langley, was not handsome in the given sense of that word; however, a number of unusual qualities combined to lift him out of the ordinary. He was a pleasant-looking young man, with a fair complexion, light brown hair that was soft and straight, and a sensitively-wrought face whose chief characteristic was one of gentleness. His personality was most apparent in his generous mouth, always touched with laughter, and in his liquid grey eyes, which were, for the most part, illuminated by kindness, humour and goodwill. They rarely flashed with anger or temperament, for Kim was easy-going and placid by nature.

He had inherited the tall, lean build of his ancestors, but his slender-looking frame was deceptive. Blessed with a grace and elegance unusual in a man, he carried himself with extraordinary self-assurance that bespoke his breeding and his centuries-old lineage. All in all, at twenty-one, he was so prepossessing, so sincere, and so good natured, everyone, and most especially young women, found him to be an engaging friend and companion.

As he stood reflectively gazing at the tips of his shoes, waiting for his sister to compose herself, Kim was thinking of one young woman in particular, and wondering how to persuade Francesca to agree to his plans for that evening. After a moment he said, ‘Well, if you feel you must work, I suppose you must. But it is Saturday night, and to tell you the truth, I thought it would be fun for you to meet this girl. You’re always telling me that you love cooking and find it relaxing.’

Francesca, who had been making a show of sifting through the papers scattered across the desk, lifted her head quickly. ‘You mean you want me to cook dinner, as well as act as your hostess for drinks! Gosh, you do have a cheek,’ she spluttered, her eyes widening. ‘And what would I cook? We’re on a tight budget this month! I only bought enough groceries for the two of us for the weekend, and I skimped at that. I thought you had accepted Aunt Mabel’s invitation to go to Gloucestershire tonight, and were not coming back until after lunch tomorrow. I’d counted on it, in fact. That’s why I was so surprised when you strolled in like the lord of the manor and made your announcement.’

until after lunch tomorrow. I’d counted on it, in fact. That’s why I was so surprised when you strolled in like the lord of the manor and made your announcement.’

Kim groaned and rolled his eyes upwards, ‘I don’t know who gave you that idea. About Gloucestershire, I mean. Not I. Dotty old Aunt Mabel indeed. No, I am staying in town, my sweet.’ He smiled at her affectionately. ‘Come on, please say yes. It’s ages since you’ve had any fun. It’ll do you good, Frankie.’

‘Don’t think you can worm your way into my good graces by calling me Frankie. I don’t like that nickname anymore.’

‘That’s a sudden change of heart. You used to insist I call you Frankie.’

‘When I was small and wanted to be a boy like you. Because I worshipped you, misguided child that I was. It may interest you to know I don’t worship you in the way I used to, and certainly not today.’

Kim grinned. ‘Oh yes you do. Just as I adore you and always will.’ He strode over to the desk and perched on the edge, looking down at her, tenderness flooding his eyes. It occurred to him that Francesca appeared more delicate than ever, and her classical English face, with its finely-drawn features, seemed smaller and slightly pinched and pale. After studying her for a few seconds he decided it was the bulky navy blue fisherman’s sweater she was wearing and her hair style that gave her such an air of attenuated fragility. She had swept her blonde tresses on top of her head and fastened them with antique tortoiseshell combs into a loose kind of pompadour, and this seemed far too heavy for her slender column of a neck. It was an old-fashioned hairdo, harking back to the Victorian era, yet it was oddly becoming on her. A strand of hair had fallen over one of her eyes and he leaned forward and gently tucked it into place.

‘There, that’s better,’ he said and kissed her cheek. ‘You’ve also got ink on your neck.’ He tweaked her ear fondly, and continued, ‘I wonder, how can I bribe you, Frankie?’

‘You can’t,’ she answered, adopting a brisk tone. She picked up her pen purposefully. ‘I must finish this research today, Kim, and I am absolutely not going to do any cooking. So stop being a perfect pest.’

Kim decided he must persevere. ‘Look here, Francesca, if this girl weren’t so special I wouldn’t ask you to do this, honestly I wouldn’t. But she is a super girl. You will love her. So will Father – I hope. I’m going to take her to Yorkshire soon. That’s one of the reasons I wanted you to meet her first. Tonight.’

Francesca was startled by this statement and her face changed. She gazed at her brother with interest, her eyes searching his. This was the first time he had ever suggested taking one of his innumerable girl friends to Langley. Such an exception to his own rigid rule changed everything. ‘Are you trying to tell me you’re serious about her?’ she asked, trying to keep the surprise out of her voice.

‘I’m not sure that’s the right word,’ Kim said, returning her unblinking stare. He rubbed his chin, reflecting, and finished, ‘But I am keen. Very keen, in fact, and I think I could get serious about her, yes.’

In these few seconds Kim had succeeded in gaining his sister’s undivided attention. Being overly-protective of him, she was about to pronounce him too young to be serious about any girl, and quickly changed her mind. It might alienate him, or even worse, push him farther into the girl’s arms. Kim had a tendency to be impetuous at times, and she did not want to unwittingly trigger a situation that might easily get out of hand. Instead she asked, ‘Who is she? What’s her name?’

A beatific smile settled on Kim’s bright young face, and he coloured slightly. ‘Katharine. Katharine Tempest,’ he said, and waited expectantly. When he observed Francesca’s blank expression, he added with a knowing look, ‘The Katharine Tempest.’

Francesca frowned. ‘Sorry, Kim, but I’m afraid I don’t know her. You sound as if I should. Oh, wait a tick, is she related to the Tempest Stewarts? I used to go to dancing class with Lady Anne. You know, the school in Eaton Square with the crazy Russian ballet mistress.’

Kim threw back his head and laughed. ‘No, she isn’t related to Lord Londonderry. Far from it. I don’t suppose I should expect you to know who she is. You’ve always got your face pushed into a history book, living in the past. God, what am I going to do with you, Frankie?’ he asked. ‘Katharine Tempest is a fabulous young actress who is literally wowing them every night in one of the biggest hits in the West End. She is young, beautiful, talented, charming, intelligent, warm and witty. In short, she is absolutely – ‘

‘Too good to be true, by the sound of it,’ Francesca suggested dryly, smothering a small amused smile.

Kim grinned at her in a sheepish fashion. ‘I know I sound like a babbling idiot, but if only you would meet her, you’d find out for yourself. She really is very special.’

‘I believe you. But I’m not so sure Father will welcome her with open arms. An actress. Gosh! You know how stuffy he can be at times – ‘ Her voice trailed off and she thought for a minute. ‘Perhaps you had better pass her off as a Tempest Stewart, at least in the beginning, until the ice is broken. But let’s get back to the point. If she is starring in a play, how can you invite her to dinner?’

‘She’ll come after the play.’

‘That means we’ll be having dinner at eleven o’clock, or even later! Oh, Kim, you are incorrigible.’

‘When we go to the theatre with the old man we always dine afterwards. There’s nothing strange about that.’

Francesca groaned. ‘Look, I’m very tired. I don’t think I could make the effort tonight. But I’ll compromise, since I would like to meet her. I’ll make something light for you, and have a drink with you when she arrives. Then I’ll disappear to my room. You would enjoy that much better anyway. You can have a lovely romantic supper à deux.’

‘It’ll be a romantic supper à trois, I’m afraid,’ Kim responded glumly. ‘She’s bringing some chap with her. That’s another reason I wanted you to join us, to make it a foursome.’

‘How can I rustle up dinner for four! I’ve only got enough for one. Me,’ Francesca wailed. ‘And anyway, who’s the spare bod she wants to drag along? Who am I supposed to charm in the early hours of the morning? And why does she have to bring him at all?’