Troy sat up in bed reading one of his father’s newspapers. The old man had used the editorial column in the day’s London Evening Herald to air his views on the matter of two nations. There was not an editor in the land who, sooner or later, did not have recourse to Disraeli’s phrase. Two Nations, Trojan Horse, Phoenix from the Ashes – all the overworked clichés of journalism. Troy was amazed he got away with it. He had not put his name to it, but Troy knew his father’s prose style. Whilst overtly calling for Britain to pull together as one nation he was also pointing out at every turn that it was, inevitably, two nations, that the war was not the leveller that most of Britain now chose to pretend it was, and that the nation, undeniably, was riven with inequalities. We die together, we do not live together. Had it been less subtle it would have provoked the authorities to fits of rage, and the old man would find himself hauled in front of some ghostly committee accused of defeatism. But Alex Troy was nothing if not subtle.
The front door slammed. It had to be Kitty. Only Kitty had a key. But it was unlike her to storm in, Kitty crept in. Always trying to surprise him.
She appeared in the doorway of his bedroom. Leant against the door jamb and stared at him. He had no idea what had made her so pissed off. He knew it wasn’t him. It was, he thought, an anger all but spent – drizzled down into exasperation, sehnsucht and want.
‘Come back for another fuck?’ he said.
‘Don’t use that word. I’ve told you before, I don’t like it. I don’t want to hear it. I know it’s how they talk in your house. Those sisters of yours are foul-mouthed. But it’s not the way I was brought up to talk.’
Kitty kicked off her shoes, not caring where they fell. Turned her back on him and yanked at the silver buttons of her tunic. Kitty had not clicked with his sisters. It was unfortunate they’d ever met. They could not but look down upon a working woman – for her part, they weren’t ladies’ and never would be. Kitty had a fair range of abuse and insult, but she drew the line at ‘fuck’. Troy didn’t think his sisters knew there could be a line.
Later, after the act she would not name by its bluntest single syllable, she was restless. Sprawled half on him, half off him, but unsettled. Troy opened his eyes. She looked away.
‘About this American of yours,’ he said.
‘Wot?’ Prising her head off his chest to look down at him. ‘Wot about him?’
‘I was wondering. What’s he like?’
‘You seen him. That night in the Salisbury. Tall, skinny, speccy, bit bald at the front. ‘Bout my age. Not exactly a looker, but. . . you know.’
‘I didn’t mean what does he look like. I meant. . . what’s he like?’
Kitty turned her back on him, swung her legs to touch the floor, looked back at him, arms out, hands resting on her knees, back bent, breasts pendulous.
‘Wot do you mean wot’s he like? You never asked before.’
‘I was curious.’
‘Nosy more like.’
‘Then indulge me.’
‘You want to know why I’m with him, don’t you?’
‘To be precise, I want to know why you’re not with him.’
She stared at the ceiling, dug her fists into her waist, arched her back and stretched her neck, breasts flattened out against her ribcage. A faint snap of cartilage as she unbent and looked back at him.
‘Well, since you ask, he’s –’