“Since September.”
“And you were immersed in this play, were you not?”
“Totally. I think I bit off too much.”
“You were leading lady.”
“Leading woman,” says Wally.
“Female lead,” says Kimberley.
Wally is noticeably taken aback, the corrector corrected. Kimberley flicks a little smile at me — conspiratorial, as if we are sharing a secret. I am finding her dangerously disarming.
“Did your fiance ever complain that so little time was reserved for him?”
“Oh, no, he keeps himself very busy, too. I mean, we were engaged, but we had our own lives. We have our own lives. That’s important to us both.”
“And do you intend to continue in that independent spirit after marriage?”
“As far as I’m concerned.”
From this firmly stated response I once more sniff the sweaty scent of premarital discord — this strong-willed female lead has been arguing for her civil rights within marriage. No doubt her illiberal boyfriend has asserted a more doctrinaire philosophy.
Jonathan is looking contemplative, leaning back, his arms folded. He never lets his eyes stray from the witness.
“At times you live with your gentleman friend. At other times you stay in an apartment. Am I right?”
“It’s just. . convenient.”
I find myself suddenly hard of hearing. “Excuse me — it’s what?”
“Sometimes it’s convenient to have your own place, that’s all.”
The utter vagueness of that word seems telling.
“Convenient in what way?”
“Sometimes. . I have to be alone.”
I strike a contemplative pose and study my jury. Goodman’s brows are raised, in speculation or distrust. Is he seeking to share with me, man to man, his doubts as to her loyalty to her lover? But I can’t imagine she keeps a trysting place.
I spend several minutes probing her relationship with Remy, mainly to draw a reasonably unromantic sketch of a hard-nosed businessman — but also one who entertains his betrothed on his yacht and flies her first class to a rented villa in the Italian Alps.
Finally, Kimberley remonstrates: “I’m not in love with his money, Mr. Beauchamp. I’m in love with a fine, generous man.”
Would this response pass a polygraph test?
She repeats, emphatically, “I am not marrying him for his money.”
“I am sure you would not consciously do so.”
Patricia breaks her long silence. “This has nothing to do with anything.”
“Mr. Beauchamp, you’re wandering far afield,” Wally says. “We are interested in West Vancouver, not villas in Lake Como.”
“I am merely bringing out the many reasons she isn’t bored to tears by Mr. Brown.”
Patricia complains again, “That’s a very unfair and totally nasty innuendo, m’lord.”
“Mr. Beauchamp, you’re going over the line. I don’t want to have to warn you again. We’ll take our break now. Ms. Martin, I’m afraid that while you are under cross-examination, however long it lasts, you must not speak to anyone about this case. Anyone. That includes the prosecutors.”
“I understand that.”
“I’m sure you do. Ten minutes.”
“You’re on the right track, Arthur,” Augustina says. “She had the hots for him; Remy is a moneyed bore.”
“The point has been made?”
“Yeah, I’ve been watching the jury.”
“But the jury likes her?”
“They like her, Arthur, but they don’t buy her.”
Kimberley is across the courtroom, sipping water, watching us. She looks far too relaxed. Has Remy’s absence lessened the pressure on her? Are they enjoying a little time apart together? I catch her eye and she smiles. Despite all my nagging at her, I think she likes me. It is rather unsettling.
Then she looks at Jonathan, and the smile clicks off.
When court resumes, Kimberley seems a little more guarded, though still composed and alert. I snap my suspenders, take a sip of water, and wait for the room to become silent.
“Let us return to the dance, Miss Martin.”
“Sure.”
“In the days of my youth, it was common for a young lady to reserve the last dance for someone upon whom she might have set her heart.”
She laughs, and I have to smile.
“That did sound over-embroidered, but you have my point? Or have times changed?”
“Times have changed, Mr. Beauchamp.”
“Ah, well, I’m a child of an earlier era. But tell me, did no one else ask to have that last dance with you?”
“Set of dances. They don’t have just a last dance any more, Mr. Beauchamp.”
“I amend the question — what is the answer?”
She hesitates. “Yes, I. . Yes.”
“But you turned these suitors down.”
“Well, I didn’t want to dance any more. . ” But that line of response does not quite work for her. She shrugs.
“You were waiting for Professor O’Donnell to ask you, weren’t you?”
“Not exactly.”
“Come, Miss Martin.”
“Well. . okay. I wasn’t going to turn him away if he asked, let’s say that.”
“And as the two of you were dancing you mentioned there was a party afterwards, and you invited him to it. Am I correct?”
“I think I only inquired if he was going.”
“The chairperson of the social committee didn’t stay to help clean the tables after the dance?”
“I thought I’d come back the next morning.”
“Yes. You were enjoying yourself immensely.”
“I was having a good time.”
“And wanted it to continue.”
“I guess I did.”
“Remy would have to wait.”
“Well, Mr. Beauchamp, I guess Remy and I are just not old-fashioned enough for you. Relationships are different today. He’s a very modern person; we’re a modern couple, and I knew he’d understand. And I’d been working non-stop: classes, rehearsals, organizing this dance, and I just wanted to. . let my hair down.”
“And you’d had a few drinks by now.”
“A few.”
“And a few more at this house in the West End.”
“A couple.”
“As Mr. Chornicky might phrase it, you were pretty zoned.”
“I think I was holding it.”
“And your flirting with Professor O’Donnell — did it continue at this party?”
“You make it sound. . No, we both circulated.”
“But you got back in his car with him.”
“I was heading up to West Vancouver, too. I thought of continuing on in the taxi, but I decided, okay, I’d like to see his house, and. .” Again, she shrugs.
“And Cinderella didn’t want the ball to end.”
“However you want to put it.”
“Thoroughly modern Remy would understand.”
“I believed he would.”
“Did you try to phone him?”
“Well, at the house party there was a line-up for the telephone.”
“No line-up for Professor O’Donnell’s phone, however.”
“By that time — it’s the small hours now Remy can’t sleep on airplanes, so I assumed he’d turned in.”
“As the hours passed, you suffered no niggling worries that your fiance might be concerned about you?”
A long silence. “A little, maybe.”
I return her silence. She cannot hold my gaze, and bites her lip and looks up high at the ceiling. Wally is giving me more breathing room now; I feel I am getting along quite nicely. A quick perusal of the jurors; Augustina is right: they like the way she offers her wares, but they aren’t ready to buy. Even Miss Jackson-Blyth is looking uncomfortable. Goodman, the investment broker, has the set expression of one who knows the games such wily women play.
“At Professor O’Donnell’s house, you enjoyed a heaping glass of cognac and Benedictine.”
“I don’t think I ever finished it.”
“Followed by some of Mr. Chornicky’s excellent cocaine. You tooted … Is that the right word, ‘toot’?”
“I suppose so,” she says wearily. “Two lines of it, according to Miss Yi.”
“I thought it was one.”
“It helped you let more hair down?”
“A little more energy, that’s all I noticed.”