Travels with my Daughter. Niema Ash

was that? I felt ill. Then suddenly I had an idea. Why not invite Victoria to stay with me until a room became available? I had a double room. “Can she share my room until then?” I asked, hopefully.

      “I can’t see why not,” the receptionist answered, pleased that a solution was at hand. “I’ll book her into your room and when something becomes free we’ll move her.”

      Then I remembered. My room had only one bed — a fairly large bed but still only one. I disliked sleeping with anyone except lovers, not even with friends or family, and Victoria was virtually a stranger. But never mind about me, I deserved to suffer, I was responsible for this mess, what about the innocent Victoria? What if she hated the idea of sharing my room, my bed. We hardly knew each other. I shrivelled with embarrassment.

      I was nervous about telling her, placing her into this impossible situation. Why hadn’t I checked first? It was acutely painful. But my fears proved groundless. Victoria was delighted, bubbly and excited like a schoolgirl. She loved the idea of sharing my room and my bed, so much so that when a room eventually became available, she asked me, very tentatively, if she could continue to stay with me; she said she found it comforting. I was touched. She had an incredible sweetness about her, child-like, affectionate. How could I refuse? Besides I didn’t want to refuse. Her bright intelligence coupled with an original perception about the lectures, the seminars, the people, fascinated me. She added a new dimension to the Summer School. I loved her wistful observations, her daring — she would ask the most provocative questions at question time — her sense of adventure, her unpredictability, her strange blend of shy and strident, the mischievous glint in her eye when she knew she was being impossible. She was an enigmatic being. We became inseparable. Friendships at the Summer School were quick and intense, like those made travelling.

      She took to Jimmy immediately. She liked listening to his Irish lilt, the way he put words and ideas together. He made her laugh and she made his heart ache. They bounced off each other. They both adored the outdoors and, growing restless during lectures, would often slip away for a walk. They liked walking and would go on long walks at every opportunity, returning deep in conversation. Sometimes I would go with them, mostly I didn’t. But I took pleasure in their being together.

      Although Victoria and I spent much time in each other’s company, I knew very little about her. She seemed reluctant to talk about her life in London and I didn’t press her. Then one day a postcard was delivered to my room. I read it before realising it was for her. One line was bewildering. “I’ve been asked to lunch with Noel Coward and Zaza Gabor — she’s passing through London.” It was signed, “Alan.”

      “Someone is putting you on Victoria,” I said handing her the card.

      She read it. “No. It’s genuine,” she said quietly.

      “Genuine? How genuine can having lunch with Noel Coward and Zaza Gabor be?”

      She looked embarrassed, as thought caught in a guilty secret. “I’m married to Alan Bates,” she said lowering her head. “He’s an actor … he knows these people.”

      “You mean Zorba The Greek, Alan Bates?”

      “Yes.” I could see she was becoming uncomfortable, agitated. “I’d rather you didn’t tell anyone.… I’d rather people knew me as myself and not as Alan Bates’ wife.”

      I was stunned. Had she told me she was married to the Duke of York, I couldn’t be more surprised. She didn’t fit my idea of a film star’s wife — not that I had ever met one — she seemed so unpretentious, so modest, at times even awkward, so careless of her dress, her appearance in general, there wasn’t a smidgen of glamour adorning her person, and she seemed so interested in things untrendy, difficult ideas, unpopular philosophies, things without shine and glitter.

      “How come you’re married to Alan Bates?” I asked, incredulously.

      “Pure chance,” she replied.

      “It’s better than winning at roulette,” I quipped in an attempt to dispel the disquiet I could feel gripping her, mouth twitching, body tightening.