How to Forget

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

When Helen Verne went to Switzerland for a holiday, she little dreamed of the intricacies of love in which she soon found herself plunged. And yet when she first saw Simon, he was kissing another woman, Petal Philipson - and he was married... A captivating love story from the 100-million-copy bestselling Queen of Romance, first published in 1944, and available now for the first time in eBook.

Release date: December 18, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 246

Sample

THE ski-slopes below the Palace Hotel at Gstaad were white and shining in the strong light of the late-afternoon sun, criss-crossed with the darkish marks left by skiers who had already destroyed the virgin purity of the diamond-like crust.

An hour ago there had been many gay-coloured figures winging like birds down these slopes which now were deserted save for the solitary figure of a woman who had stopped at the foot of the slope, removed her skis and was standing with her back against a snow-powdered fir tree, smoking a cigarette. To her left lay a narrow pathway through a cluster of trees. Still farther below she could see the blue haze of the valley, and beyond were majestic mountain-tops, blurred in whiteness against the blue sky.

The air was piercingly cold, yet the sun was hot. Helen Verne pulled a scarlet cap from her head and shook back dark, thick hair. For a moment she raised her head and shut her eyes, letting the sunlight drench her face and her uncovered hair. How still it was! Exquisitely still and peaceful after the noise in the hotel; the screams, the laughter from the crowds who had besieged these slopes up to half an hour ago. But now was the time when most people returned to their hotels. Very soon, with incredible swiftness, the sun would sink behind those mountain crests. Darkness would fall. She should, of course, put on her skis again and climb up towards the Palace. But first she wanted to enjoy the relaxation here, alone, smoking her cigarette.

But it was a peace not long to be enjoyed, for as Helen opened her eyes to gaze downward at the valley again she heard the sound of a girl’s voice … a rustling through the trees behind her. She sighed. Somebody was coming. One had to go farther or climb higher in order to be quite alone. And now, distinctly, she could hear what the clear, high-pitched voice was saying:

“I’ve had enough of this, Simon. Unstrap my skis for me, darling, and let’s have a cigarette.”

Helen Verne smiled to herself. There were others with ideas like her own. The man addressed as Simon answered:

“Too lazy to take off your own skis, are you? You little devil.”

The girl answered.

“You know you like doing things for me.”

Helen Verne turned her head. Through the slim saplings she could just catch a glimpse of two figures, and she recognized them. They were from her own hotel. The girl was Petal Philipson, out here on holiday with her husband—a huge young man whom she called Jumbo—and with this man, Simon Boyd. Helen knew nothing about the trio except that they were always together; that the husband was the odd man out and that the girl, Petal, was having an affair in an outrageously open fashion with the other man.

Helen heard Mrs. Philipson’s voice echoing clearly to her:

“Darling, isn’t it heaven to be alone for a moment? Do you know you haven’t kissed me for years and years?”

From the man:

“A slight exaggeration, my sweet. I kissed you last night, as a matter of fact.”

“That’s far too long ago. You know I’m crazy about you, don’t you, Simon? I do a lot of laughing and joking, but I am crazy about you.”

From the man:

“Dear little Petal!”

And then silence. Helen Verne felt hot and uncomfortable. Biting her lips, she took another look through the trees, and it was easy now to see the two figures merged into one.

The sight of that passionate embrace had a disturbing effect upon Helen Verne. She was not shocked. She was far too much of a woman of the world to be that. In a place like this there were plenty of married women with boy-friends; and married men making love to girls who were not their wives. Plenty of it going on, not only here at winter sports, but at home … in, London, Paris, New York … all over the world. Yes, all over the world there were unhappy marriages and illicit lovers. A hair-raising list of cases waiting to be heard in the divorce courts. Thousands of ill-matched couples and broken homes.

Helen Verne was not the kind of woman to judge others even though confident that, were she herself married and had found that she had made a mistake, she would abide by it rather than become entangled in a sordid little episode which could lead nowhere except to disaster for all three people concerned.

Certainly she was not shocked because there, unaware of her presence. Petal Philipson stood locked in the arms of Simon Boyd. Nevertheless she wanted to go, to get away from those two. She did not want to be witness of their passion or unconscious eavesdropper of what they said. But she was in a quandary. If she moved and put on her skis they might see her and realize that she had seen them. It would be too embarrassing. Then again she heard Mrs. Philipson’s voice and was forced once more to listen to what was being said.

The dialogue that followed between these two was interesting, to say the least of it, although Helen could have done without the excitement. It was all too frankly revealing of the state of affairs between the two.

“Simon … Simon, you do love me, don’t you?”

“I love holding you … like this.”

“But you do love me?”

“Don’t always ask me that.”

“That means you don’t.”

“Petal, my sweet, you know perfectly well that I am in love with you and you know equally well that I oughtn’t to be. I’m being a cad to you and worse to Jumbo.”

“Jumbo doesn’t matter.”

“Darling, he is your husband.”

“It still doesn’t matter. We’ve been over all that before. I ought never to have married Jumbo. You know why I did.”

“Don’t boast about it, my sweet. Marrying a chap for his money isn’t really the thing to do.”

“But I had to do it. You know how extravagant I am, and Daddy paid my debts so many times and wouldn’t pay them any more. And Jumbo was kind. …”

“Kind and weak, and you don’t like a man to be either of those things, do you. Petal?”

A tinkling laugh from Petal Philipson, floating through the still keen air. Helen Verne heard it and was suddenly ashamed of her sex. The man did not seem to like his position overmuch, but the girl was conscienceless.

Came her voice again:

“I like men to be strong and ruthless like you, Simon.”

“I’m not so strong, my dear, or I’d quit this business of making love to Jumbo’s wife behind his back.”

“Oh, darling, do stop having qualms. They don’t suit you. You are much more amusing when you forget about Jumbo and think only of little Petal.”

“Little Petal is a spoilt child and it is time somebody taught her a lesson.”

“Darling, don’t be the one to teach me. Just go on loving me or being in love, if you prefer it that way.”

“I do.”

“I don’t know that it’s altogether complimentary.”

“Petal, my sweet, aren’t we being much too serious all of a sudden? We agreed that we wouldn’t be. I’ve learned the truth about you lately. You treat Jumbo like dirt and he still worships you. And I do not wish to be the chap to come between you.”

“Oh dear, your conscience again! Let’s go back to the hotel and have a drink. That’s what you want, Simon darling.”

“Okay. Let’s carry the skis and walk.”

Helen Verne crouched against her tree in an agony of embarrassment. She could not bear these two to come forward and find her standing there. Neither could she remember with any relish the things they had said to each other. Yet there was nothing very original about it. It was just another futile intrigue. The woman without conscience. The man decent enough to be aware of doing the wrong thing, and yet too attracted by the girl to ‘snap out of it’.

To Helen’s relief, the couple walked in the opposite direction. Gradually she heard their voices and the noise of their movement diminishing. She let her cigarette-end drop into the snow. A little grimly she reflected on what she had just so unwillingly heard. She had taken special note of the three members of ‘the eternal triangle’ at a party in the hotel last night. Jumbo Philipson, fair-haired, blue-eyed, six-feet-four, powerfully built, and, in paradox, weak of character, following his wife around like a lamb. He was the type to let himself be trodden on and to deny Petal Philipson nothing. The wife, herself, still in her early twenties, and, as the man Simon had just said, hopelessly spoiled; outrageously pretty and with all the lovely clothes and glamour that money could buy for her. Simon Boyd, slim, dark, good-looking, man-of-the-world, obviously harder and shrewder than the husband, obviously infatuated with the girl. But from the conversation to which Helen had just listened she judged that he was neither satisfied with himself nor his entanglement. Helen felt sorry for him and a little contemptuous. Sorry about him, too. She had taken to the three at last night’s party and had been amused by Simon. She had liked him. It was not particularly edifying to find him, self-confessed, Petal Philipson’s boy-friend.

Still, it was not her business, she thought wryly, as she picked up her skis and began to trudge along the narrow path leading to the hotel. The sun had set, vanishing behind a heavy bank of cloud. Darkness was failing and it was growing very cold. She reached the Palace Hotel and stood a moment, looking at the mountain-tops, which were fading to indeterminate grey.

Her thoughts were no longer concerned with Petal, her husband, and Simon Boyd. She was remembering that mental wound which she had received three years ago when Jack Ludlow, her fiancé, had been killed in an avalanche near this very place.

Coming back here had forced her at last to acknowledge the truth of the hackneyed words of consolation: ‘Time heals everything’. It was true. At the time of Jack’s death she had rejected such comfort, but with the passing of months and years the anguish and the rebellion against fate had diminished for Helen. Slowly she had learned as others had learned before her that such pain must either destroy or diminish. She had wanted to die with Jack, but she had lived, and gradually the haunting sorrow had faded to more tolerable memories.

When she had taken her three weeks’ holiday from the office and come out to Switzerland for winter sports she had known that it would be taking a risk and that it might hurt her unbearably to return to a country so closely connected with her tragedy. And the first day she had arrived, the very sight of the mountains and the snow had brought back the picture of that bitter day when she had attended Jack’s funeral service in Chateau D’Oex.

But at least she had been sensible enough to avoid staying there. She had come up some hundreds of feet higher to Gstaad. She had never really intended to come alone. One of her best friends, Betty Curtis, who worked in the office with her and was Fashion Editress of a rival magazine to the one which Helen edited, had meant to come with her. But a last-moment hitch on Betty’s paper—the illness of her ‘sub’—had necessitated her postponing her holiday. So Helen, having made all her arrangements, came out alone.

She had always liked winter sports. It was in Switzerland that she had first met Jack Ludlow, to whom she afterwards became engaged. At that time she was only just climbing the hard rungs of the journalistic ladder, and had been holding a small post on a fashion paper. Jack, himself, was a newspaper correspondent.

At one time she would never have thought of spending a holiday any other way but at winter sports, where the sun, the keen air and the swift, vigorous life suited her vital temperament. But after Jack’s death she had tried to shut out the very thought of Switzerland, and had taken her one treasured vacation of the year in the South of Spain.

Yet now she had come back here again. Today Helen knew that she was quite calm and even unmoved. That seemed a little horrifying. But coming back had been good for her. It had finally laid the ghost of Jack, which for so long had walked at her side and troubled her. She could think about him and their days together without wincing. She could be at peace in the contemplation that he was so utterly at peace; and she believed that he must know by now that she had meant to go to him and attempt a reconciliation had he lived. Losing him on top of a foolish quarrel had been so appalling. But she felt now that she need no longer torture herself with the thought that their last meeting had been an unhappy one. Jack knew all … and understood that she had loved him to the end … and long afterwards.

Secondly, the coming back had taught her something else, something of vital importance. It had brought her face to face with the realization of her age, and of the waste of the last few years.

HELEN had been twenty-six when Jack Ludlow died, and next week she would be thirty. Thirty! Grave thought for any woman who must needs associate youth with her twenties. After that dreaded birthday next week Helen would never be ‘twenty-anything’ again. She was not married and did not look like getting married. Pretty bad for a woman who had always wanted children; and for one of passionate and generous temperament. Helen was conscious that she possessed both passion and generosity. Her love affair with Jack had taught her that. But when he died she had turned her back on that side of her nature and thrown herself, body and soul, into her job. That was why she was a success. That was why the directors had told her at the last conference that the circulation of her paper Look Lovely had soared since she had taken over the editorship, and that they were going to increase her salary at the end of the year. One could only be a success if one put everything one possessed into a job. And Helen had been glad to shut out memories of Jack that way.

But was it worth it?

Here she was, Helen Verne, running a prosperous sixpenny journal for women, noted for the intelligent and tireless work which she gave to it; owner of a nice little service flat in Shepherd’s Market, with a reasonable enough income to allow her to live comfortably and entertain her many friends in a small way.

But what when the work was over and the friends had gone? Just loneliness, and that ever-present query: ‘Where is it all leading me?’ Where would Helen Verne be when she was no longer a successful journalist; when she grew too tired to hold down any big job; too old and plain to command a host of friends and be asked out to their parties? Nobody wants solitary, ageing old maids. There are too many of them. And when Helen let her mind dwell on the possibility of herself as an ‘unwanted spinster’ she felt uneasy. It was not all roses, even now, living alone and working for a living. Not all the theories or practices of emancipated woman of modern days can really eliminate a woman’s real place in life, which is at the side of the man she loves and with their children.

Coming down the road towards the hotel, she saw Petal Philipson and Simon Boyd. They were in good spirits, laughing and talking together. They had just emerged from one of the sweet-shops in the village. Petal carried a big box of chocolates in one hand. Now there, thought Helen ironically, was a girl who extracted all, indeed too much, from life. A girl who appeared to have both husband and lover. Whether or not Jumbo Philipson was aware of the affair between his wife and Boyd, Helen did not know. But Petal obviously extracted every ounce of pleasure to be had out of the situation.

‘She is young and beautiful and has two men at her feet,’ thought Helen Verne, watching the distant pair. ‘And I am thirty next week and there isn’t one man in my life. Am I a fool?’

It was not exact to say that there wasn’t one man in her life, because there were two in the office, for instance, who, if she encouraged them, would at once establish an intimate friendship with her and would certainly propose to her. But they neither of them appealed to Helen, and she could never have an affair with a man just for the sake of it. She must like him—as much as she had liked Jack.

It seemed altogether queer to Helen that she could be out here in Gstaad remembering Jack and simultaneously feeling that she needed love even though he was no longer alive to give it to her. Once she had thought there could be nobody else … she was built that way. But time could indeed change one, and it had changed her. Jack had taught what it meant to love and be loved. Jack was dead. But the desire for love and for loving lived on in Helen.

She was conscious that she had reached an interesting psychological crisis in her life. There was something thrilling in it. She could even feel regretful for having stamped on sentiment so relentlessly during the past few years. She had grown a little too hard, too abrupt in manner, she told herself. She had lost some of her old charm. Jack had always told her that, when she wanted, no woman could be more charming. Well, no doubt she could recover it. She could soften a bit. And she could prove that a woman need not bid farewell to youth because she was thirty. Helen was quite confident that she could still hold her own amongst younger girls. Hard work did not necessarily age one. It did one good. She was mentally alert. She had knowledge and experience which made some of the younger women appear ignorant and gauche beside her. And how about her appearance? Helen thought that over, and came to the conclusion that physically she could hold her own, too.

This morning she had looked at herself long and carefully in her glass and had been relieved to find that there were no wrinkles on her face save for one or two tiny ones about the corners of the eyes which Jack had called her ‘laughing lines’. She had had them even in those days; because she crinkled up her eyes when she smiled. Her skin was smooth and fine in texture and at the moment looking its best, tanned to a rich golden brown by the sun. She had fine-cut features, a large expressive mouth and splendid teeth. Her eyes varied with her moods. Of an unusual grey, they could be granite-hard when there was need for it and equally soft when her feelings were moved.

Her hair, which she wore cut short, was dark, almost black, brushed back from her forehead and curled at the nape of her neck. She was of medium height, a little too thin, perhaps—too fine-drawn.

She had never been called pretty. But Jack used to tell her that she was more than that, She had always been attractive—well, she knew it! It is a stupid woman who doesn’t know her assets.

What then, Helen asked herself, was she doing without the biggest essential in the life of an attractive woman—a lover?

‘This champagne air is going to my head,’ Helen firmly told herself, and thought it was high time she returned to the office and to hard work.

Petal and Simon drew near. And now a big, fair man, wearing plus-fours, came out of the hotel and joined them. The three then caught sight of Helen. They hailed her and came towards her; Petal and Simon carrying their skis on their shoulders.

“Hullo, there!” said Petal Philipson. “Come and have a drink. We’ve had some marvellous runs. Have you?”

“Yes,” said Helen, and avoided Petal’s gaze.

Petal pulled off a white cap and shook free a mass of curls so fair that she might be called a platinum blonde.

“You must come with us tomorrow, Miss Verne,” she said. “Jumbo”—she indicated her husband—“put my skis away, darling. Or you, Simon—”

Both the men moved forward to take her skis. For a moment Helen looked on with a dry little smile of amusement hovering at the corners of her mouth. Here was a perfect picture of the exquisite tyrant and her two slaves. Interesting. She looked at the girl. ‘Exquisite’ was the word one might apply to Petal. She was small and fragile, with that mop of hair framing a childish, pointed little face. In her smart skiing suit with the white jacket and brilliant blue muffler she might have been sixteen instead of a married woman of twenty-five. She had large eyes of forget-me-not blue. The long, artificially blackened lashes and the vivid red of her lips gave her, however, a sophisticated look, and of course one had only to study that sensuous, rather greedy mouth, thought Helen, to know that she was not the sweet child she appeared. She was as hard as nails.

Helen searched the pages of her memory once more, as she had done last night when she had been talking to the Philipsons. Suddenly she knew … this girl had been Petal Naysmith, one of the much-talked-about débutantes of two seasons ago. Every society paper had photographs of her; Petal at balls, theatres, picture premières; Petal on a sit-stick at a race meeting, or swimming in Nassau—or Florida. Always in the limelight, lovely and amusing.

Then she had married George Philipson—Jumbo—only son and heir of Sir George Philipson, a manufacturing magnate. Helen suddenly recalled all kinds of little details about this couple. Jumbo was an architect and had designed a new garden city which had won him some distinction. He must be about twenty-seven and the girl was two years younger.

There had been a very fashionable wedding at St. George’s, Hanover Square, and now that Helen came to think of it her friend Betty had run an article about Petal’s wedding dress with a big photograph of her on the front page. She had worn ivory velvet and a wimple and veil which had made her look like a theatrical nun who had painted her face by mistake. ‘Just the sort of garment she would choose,’ thought Helen.

It was supposed to have been a love match. From the way Jumbo looked at Petal, he was obviously in love with her. But Helen, after this afternoon’s episode, knew perfectly well what Petal felt about her husband.

Standing close t. . .