The last time Paula saw Roland they took a bath together. It was his idea (‘Darling, would you like to hop in the tub with me, I’ll give you such a scrubbing?’) and it seemed for a moment a sexy, sensual proposition. To wash his chest with its meagre hairs, soap him down until he was slippery and perfumed with the bar of lime-scented Floris she had bought him for Christmas. The bathroom at home was the place of the airing cupboard, her father locked in, straining over his bowels, the smell of him and her brothers, the seat left up. It was a realm of privacy defended against intruders. The idea of sharing a bath with another human being was one of Roland’s modern thoughts. It depended on there being enough hot water and the room not too chilly.
‘There’s a heater, darling,’ he said, ‘have you never noticed? It’s on the wall. I can put that on if you’d like.’
‘You really want to do this, don’t you?’
‘Yes, why not? Just get undressed if you’re going to or we’ll have to think of something else to do.’
She remembered how little Roland usually bathed – once a week, if that – and how the bar of Floris soap was still unopened from its tissue paper, and actually, now she thought about it, how unerotic it would be lying with him in the scummy water. She might have turned back, but she thought, Oh, well, if he wants to do something nice for once … Lately he had become impossible, not completely so, she calculated, but irrational, starting fights, picking at a scab of jealousy. She knew he knew about Eric. He said his name with a pulse of hatred. She assumed Robin Rose had told him. He hadn’t. It was Itzik who had said, ‘My dear old friend, we are friends now, aren’t we, and we must look out for the young lady, we must not allow her to be taken advantage of by an older, powerful man in a position of authority. We must save our little Paula from that.’
Roland had suddenly felt an attack of vertigo, as if he was peering down a lift shaft, leaning much too far over the edge. Everything seemed so thick and muddled these days. Paula breezed in at times of her own convenience with her stupidity, her lack of natural grace, her lacquered artificial finish, talking about shooting scripts and close-ups and dolly shots. He had not taken her on for her conversation. He was supposed to educate her, his little Pygmalion. And he had taught her sex, he had deflowered her. Forgetting that once he had done that, now, it turned out, anyone could have her. He imagined lines of men queuing down the street, waiting their turn like housewives waiting for the butcher’s ration. It drove him mad. He must punish her for her promiscuity. Possession, he thought, was nine-tenths of the law, but for how much longer would he have her? And who or what would he be without her? He didn’t like to think about it, which meant, he supposed, that he must be in love with her. Which he associated with flowers and boxes of chocolates and engagement rings and there was no way this could be happening to him, it didn’t fit at all. He didn’t believe in it. It was another temporary hallucination.
In the bath, he called Paula his angel. She smiled. Seemed flattered, splashed his chest, blew him a kiss. She could be proud, haughty, wasn’t now. He had her between his finger and thumb.
‘Am I?’
‘Of course, I don’t mean a Renaissance angel, you’d be completely out of place at the National Gallery.’
‘Why is that?’
‘You’re vulgar, your face is too modern.’
‘How can a face be modern? I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Well, your eyebrows are plucked into those very thin arches that are in fashion at the moment, completely unnatural, and your mouth has a painted cupid’s bow and there’s that black dot you draw in by your lip. Why do women do this? Your kittenish tricks drive me mad. I used to sneak into my sister’s bedroom and smell the cups of her brassieres because she powdered them with scented talcum. What do you even need brassieres for? They’re a trick, too, pushing up your bosoms to shove themselves in a man’s face.’
‘How revolting you are.’ She splashed water in his face. He grimaced and wiped away what felt like tears.
‘Me? I am revolting? That’s a laugh, we both know what I taught you to do with your mouth. You went for it like a bird takes to the air.’
Her body shuddered, her chest went red. Her limbs gave out heat to the cooling water.
‘I only did it once.’
‘But you liked it, didn’t you, that Paris whore’s stunt.’ He made a gobbling gesture with his mouth. ‘You did it once, so do it again, go on, bend your head.’ And his hand reached for the back of her damp hair.
She slapped him lightly. He withdrew his hand in surprise. His cheek bore a momentary imprint.
‘Oh, is it violence you want? Well, violence you can have. If you don’t mend your ways, miss, I’ll whip you.’
She laughed. The things he came out with, how could one take him seriously? ‘Where on earth are you going to get a whip from? Do you have a horse I don’t know about?’
‘There are saddlery shops where they stock that kind of thing.’
‘Yes, in the countryside, I suppose, but in London? I don’t think so.’
‘Well, there are the King’s horses, the Guardsmen must get their paraphernalia from somewhere. Saddles, and bridles and bits, that sort of thing. Now I come to think about it, there’s a saddlery shop in the Strand.’
‘I’ve never noticed.’
‘When did you ever pay any attention to shops that aren’t hats and gloves and gowns and jewels? No, hang on, the Army and Navy must sell them, of course they will, no better place.’ He laughed, satisfied. ‘Get ready for a good thrashing, young lady.’
‘Oh, you are so pathetic.’
The shared bath had not turned out to be a romantic moment. The water had cooled, there was nothing left in the immersion tank to heat it. The Floris soap had sunk to the bottom and grown watery, lost. It is time to pull the plug, she thought. And yanked its chain.
‘What are you doing?’
‘It’s over.’ She hadn’t meant to say that but when the words came out of her mouth she knew they were true.
‘What’s over? What do you mean?’
‘I’m cold.’
‘I know you are, you always have been. You don’t care for me at all.’
‘Oh, Roland.’
He stood naked on the bathmat, at half-mast. How frail he seemed. He used to be a soldier, she thought, I always forget about that. He doesn’t look as if he could say boo to a goose, yet he must have fought somewhere, had a rank, a war record, bad memories, been brave or frightened. His body showed no sign of a wound, no bullet scars.
‘By the way, what did you do in the war? I never asked.’ It suddenly felt important to complete the picture, so the story could end.
‘Then why are you asking now?’
‘I just can’t imagine you in uniform, going into battle.’
‘I had a uniform, all right. It’s still in the wardrobe, as it happens. I’m surprised you never noticed.’
‘I’m going to look right now.’
‘Help yourself.’
She found it, the navy blue jacket, the gold buttons, the stripes.
‘Oh, so you went to sea. I hadn’t thought of that. You in a ship, dodging U-boats and torpedoes. Was it exciting or boring and do you have medals?’
‘Yes. I do. Just the usual ones; nothing for gallantry, if you’re looking for a hero.’
‘Show me.’
‘My mother has them. I don’t keep them here.’
‘But you keep your coat.’
‘It’s warm.’
‘Put it on. Let me see you in it.’
‘No, you put it on.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, leave it unbuttoned, let your tits hang out.’
‘Okay.’ She sniffed at the serge to see if it had a salty smell. ‘It’s very heavy.’ The shoulders weighed her down.
‘I wish I had a camera. I could sell the pictures to a dirty magazine. You’d be famous in Soho. I really should buy one. I’d take pictures of you every day and you’d be in every sex shop. I could see you any time I like, which isn’t the case now, is it?’
‘You think I’m a tart? Really?’
‘Yes. You are a tart.’
‘Because I have a modern face? Is that why I’m a tart?’
‘If you say so. If that explanation suits you, I’m sure I can think of more.’ He patted the back of his own head and giggled. Conscious he had gone too far, he tried to think of ways of going further.
Paula remembered the woman being sick in her handbag outside the York Minster. Perhaps once, long ago, she had had a modern face and it had all led to there, to the pavement, to being rubbish.
He said, ‘Also, while you’re still here, who exactly sent you?’
‘Sent me where?’
‘Here, here.’
‘Like a letter, a parcel?’
‘Stop playing with words. Are you spying on me?’
She thought, You really need to get out of here before he goes completely off his rocker.
‘I’m going to get dressed now. Will you come outside and find me a taxi?’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Home, of course.’
‘Why there of all places? You’re seeing another man, aren’t you, a third fellow. I can tell from your face, as if I didn’t know already.’
‘Don’t be so mad.’
‘Who is it? Not Robin Rose, he’s an obvious fruit, but you’ve fucked one director, now you’re going for the other one – you are, aren’t you?’
He went and lay full length on the leather sofa, his arms by his sides. ‘If you’re going, then go, I don’t see why you need my help, it’s not the blackout. You’ll find a taxi easily enough, they’ll love a fare all the way to Chelsea. Have you got enough money? If you haven’t, I’ll pay you for a fuck. My little tart, you’re not really going, though, are you? I might be court-martialled, you know, for letting you wear my uniform. Did you find anything in the pockets? Did I leave anything there, left over from the Battle of the … No, I mustn’t say it, they’d throw me in the clink. Or in the drink.’
‘Get up. You’ll freeze to death lying there.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I told you, home. Roland, I don’t think I’m going to see you again.’
‘The hell you won’t. You’re mine.’ But he made no effort to stand and prevent her from leaving, or even sit up; he lay back looking half-dead, she thought. A scrap of a man. A fillet of a human being, boneless, wasted. What had he made her feel that she suddenly did not feel anymore?
On the street Primrose Hill was a dark hump in the distance. It was near eleven o’clock. Not too late to find her way home. There were still buses running and the lights of several taxis milled about on Regent’s Park Road, returning to the West End for one last push at a fare. That was easy, she thought, as she found a cab and settled down into the seat. Easier than one might have expected. It was just a matter of asserting your rights and opening and closing a door. After a while the taxi turned into the King’s Road.
‘Is it much further?’ the driver said. ‘This road is always longer than I think; it goes on for bloody ever.’