The next time Douglas saw Julia they had no privacy. It was at the opening of an exhibition in London and it was the earliest time Douglas could see her without having to make a complicated arrangement or find another excuse. He organised a few spurious meetings and flew down from Glasgow.
The exhibition was so crowded that it took a long time to find her. Julia looked up, saw him, and separated herself from the people she was speaking to.
Douglas leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek, as if they were acquaintances.
Julia held on to his arm.
‘We can’t be seen talking to each other. The slightest thing could give us away.’
‘I’ve hardly touched you.’
‘Don’t even joke about it. My husband is here. He’ll guess.’
‘You never told me he was coming.’
‘How could I? Is your wife with you?’
‘No. We live in Glasgow.’
‘Well, we live in London.’
Douglas did not want to see her with her husband. He could not stand the thought of pretending that he didn’t know her.
‘I have something for you,’ she said, reaching into her bag. ‘It’s a letter. It explains everything; or as much as I can. Read it when you are alone. Then destroy it.’
It was a tightly folded piece of orange paper with Bundestagswahl … und was das Grundgesetz dazu sagt written on it, a flyer for an open-air dance event in a small German town. The dance steps were drawn in diagrammatic form.
‘It looks very odd.’
‘I had to wait for a flight back,’Julia said. ‘Don’t let anyone see it. It says too much already.’
Douglas could see other guests coming towards them: Steven, the owner of an art gallery, a dandyish painter in a lemon-yellow suit, a woman whose name he could not remember.
‘I didn’t know you two knew each other,’ Steven said.
‘We don’t,’ Julia replied.
‘I’d have thought you’d get on rather well…’
‘Another time, perhaps,’ said Douglas, obeying Julia’s instructions. ‘I have to be going.’
‘Of course.’ Julia smiled. ‘Another time.’
Douglas found the nearest pub. He ordered a pint of Guinness and looked for a place where he could read her note. He found a light by the slot machine.
He had not seen Julia’s handwriting before. It was rounded and scarcely joined; almost printed. He wondered how long it had taken her to write it (had there been a previous draft?) and what a graphologist might make of it:
Dear Douglas,
Don’t ask me what’s on the other side of this paper. I think it’s dance steps meets nuclear physics. I am killing time before the flight, soaking up the um-pa-pa atmosphere. The brass band has left the stage and now I am confronted with an aerobics performance. Yesterday I went to a small medieval village near by. We took a boat upriver, past the vineyards and a charming industrial area complete with its very own nuclear power plant. But I know you don’t want to hear all this. You want to talk about us. What a difficult thing to do. Every day I think about us. I know it is impossible and can only lead to disaster. We must stop. I think the longer it goes on the harder it will be. I can feel myself slipping and before I know it I will not be able to break away. This is why I keep my distance. I have made a life with John. Now the aerobics team has left the stage and been replaced by a chorus singing ‘Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah’ in German. What a weird country. Nothing matters to me more than my children. You know there really isn’t such a thing as a free lunch. So when can I see you again? Hopefully I can deliver this letter to you in person Thursday night.
Love,
Lonely, obsessed, confused, intoxicated, sensual, paranoid
Julia
Douglas read the letter again. It was a form of thinking aloud. He thought of writing a reply. But he realised he still didn’t want to say anything. If anything he wanted to silence Julia, be with her physically, their mouths together and bound so fast that no speech was necessary. He wanted to call her, be with her, never leave her again. He didn’t want a letter. A letter wasn’t enough.
He said little on his return from London.
Emma was in rehearsals for a musical play and was tense because only half the songs had been written.
‘Honestly,’ she said, ‘this happens every time. And there’s a whole song about consumer goods that’s supposed to represent the decadence of Western culture but it’s impossible to learn. You know, every soap, every breakfast cereal, every bread and every biscuit. They want to do it as a kind of rap but none of us can get our heads round it – are you listening?’
‘Of course I’m listening.’
‘Then what did I say?’
‘Something about breakfast.’
‘And?’
‘In your show.’
‘You will come, won’t you?’
‘Of course I’ll come.’
Douglas couldn’t understand how he was getting away with it; why his wife didn’t suspect anything.
‘God, they’re impossible. The men who run that place…’
‘I like them.’
‘I like them too. That’s why I am there. But they can be so infuriating.’
‘They mean well.’
‘What do you know, Douglas? You’re hardly ever there.’
‘Have I ever missed a show that you’ve been in?’
‘No.’
‘There’s no need to be smug about it.’
‘I’m not being smug.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’
‘Don’t be angry.’
‘I’m not angry.’
‘I’ll leave you then,’ said Douglas. He thought what it might mean to use the phrase for real. He couldn’t imagine it. A different life. What was he doing?
‘Don’t leave, you’re supposed to comfort me.’
‘Sorry.’ He opened his arms and gave his wife a hug. He did not know how much longer he could keep up the pretence.
‘I just need you to look after me.’
Ten days later he was sitting in an aisle seat at the back of the theatre watching the first performance of his wife’s play. Although the show wasn’t as slick as it could have been Emma had a presence, vivacity and a drive that forced people to look at her. Douglas was both proud and afraid. He didn’t know how he could ever tell her, or explain himself, or keep what he had done from her.
‘Wasn’t Emma great?’ the director asked afterwards.
‘You got there in the end.’
‘We couldn’t have done it without her.’
Emma came out to the bar with the other actors and kissed her husband.
‘Was I OK?’
‘You were great. You always are.’
‘You’re just saying that.’
‘No, really you were.’
Nothing made any sense any more. Here Douglas was, surrounded by writers and actors, people he knew and liked, good, generous people who occasionally ranted about their lack of money and recognition but who had always been welcoming and accepting.
What was wrong with him? This was a perfectly decent world. He had been lucky with his work, his marriage and his friends. He had nothing to complain about.
But he kept thinking of Julia.
He remembered going to a production of Les Liaisons Dangereuses in London. Madame de Tourvel: I was innocent, at peace with the world: it was meeting you that destroyed me. And there was Lancelot and Guinevere, even though what he was doing with Julia was never as noble. Thorow thys same man and me hath all thys warre be wrought, and the dethe of the most noblest knyghtes of the worlde; for thorow oure love that we have loved togydir ys my most noble lord slayne…
There was no way out or back. He could see that now. There was nothing he could do to right his life.