10

Then we made love but really nothing was resolved. For the rest of the morning we kept carefully away from anything which might prove controversial—in fact, Oliver stayed in bed, while I, following a nap and another shower and two large cups of black coffee, went back to the sitting room and tried to get on with some writing. We had lunch and it was fine; but we remained careful. Towards three I decided to go to the gym for an extra workout. I had a pretty gruelling one, which meant ending up in even more of a sweat than usual. Yet after some thirty lengths of the pool I felt reinvigorated and if Oliver had been at home when I returned I’d have gone straight to him and put my arms around him and apologized. I might even have promised to give up the flat. But frustratingly he’d left a note telling me he was having tea with Rachel Millwood. So I lounged in front of the TV and half-watched children’s programmes, flipped through the Standard, drank a couple of gins—and then changed for my dinner at the Savoy. Elizabeth had phoned the previous evening.

Oliver, who liked the Sheldons less than I did, had pleaded an engagement but on my giving him a languid nod had said he felt sure that I was free. He would make certain I received the message.

And the evening turned out pleasantly. Mr and Mrs Sheldon still weren’t loquacious but they were easily amused and Elizabeth was lively. We spoke at first about their odyssey through Britain and their enjoyable if largely unsuccessful attempts to trace their forebears; and afterwards, although I hadn’t originally been going to mention it, I told them of my trip abroad with Oliver and gave them a spirited account of our brush with the French authorities. As they too would shortly be visiting France and Spain, they declared they would be careful at all costs to avoid Customs Officer de Gaulle.

“Did you say you’d be going in just a couple of days?” I asked.

Mrs Sheldon nodded and then commenced to talk—for her, quite volubly. Paradoxically, when this occurred, I felt at something of a disadvantage—for I was never strong on geography and her recital of all the places they’d be seeing left me with so little to say that my mind began to wander. I started by thinking how entertainingly Oliver could have chatted about each town on their itinerary, even if he hadn’t been to it, and then went on to wonder where and with whom he was spending the evening (he had mentioned only tea with Mrs Millwood) or whether he might be spending it alone—and, if so, whether he was perhaps feeling a bit under the weather on account of what had happened earlier; and I suddenly thought how pleased I’d be if by some piece of magic he were now to appear in the doorway of the grillroom, wave and walk across. This brought me up with a little start of surprise: it was the first time I had consciously missed him. But also—and very fortunately—it alerted me to the end of Mrs Sheldon’s recital. She said: “Then we come back here for two last weeks before leaving for the States on the twenty-fifth of March.”

“My word, but what a tour you’re having! The trip of a lifetime!” I was afraid I might have put too much emphasis on it, in sheer relief they hadn’t caught me napping.

When the evening ended, Elizabeth and her father came to put me in a taxi and Elizabeth said quietly, while her father was joking with the doorman, “You wouldn’t mind, would you, if I wrote to you while we’re away?”

“Why should I mind? I’d be delighted. And maybe if you have the time I’ll be able to see you when you come back?”

“Oh, I’ll certainly make the time,” she said. “And, by the way, I call it really exciting about your book. I do admire your courage.”

No need to disabuse her. As the taxi drew away and I twisted round and waved before we turned into the Strand (and before I gave the cabby his new destination) Mr Sheldon was already engaged once more in hearty, democratic discussion with the doorman; but Elizabeth was still standing there, hopefully, hand upraised. I felt a sudden pang of something—for something—although I wasn’t quite sure what. The sensation quickly passed, however. I settled back into the comfort of the cab.

Oliver was in bed when I got to the Embankment. It was after midnight but even so this was unusual. He was reading, though, and not pretending to be asleep, which I’d feared might be the case.

“Hello,” he said. “Had a good time?”

I was so thankful he wasn’t brooding that I bound, fully clothed, onto the bed and gave him a big hug. “Not bad,” I answered, “but I’m glad to be back.”

“I’m glad to have you back.”

“I’ve missed you this evening.”

“Get on with you! You’ve had the gamin-faced Elizabeth to bill and coo with.”

“Yes, that’s definitely the right word, isn’t it? Gamin-faced. At first I thought her plain.”

He didn’t answer. We lay there in contented silence.

“Shall I let you in to a secret?” I asked, eventually. “I came back from the gym this afternoon just itching to see you. I was prepared to make all sorts of concessions, too. Now you’ll never know what you missed.”

Somehow, he managed to bear up. “Rachel sends her love. Hopes to see you soon. I told her we’d fix something up during the next week or two.”

“Yes. She’s nice. Did you stay with her after tea?”

“No. She was getting too exuberant; talking about phoning friends and having cocktails. So I hurried off to a theatre.”

“I hope it was something suitably gloomy.”

“It was. ‘Ghosts’, at the Old Vic. Gloomy but absorbing: absolutely what I needed.”

“And I suppose you never gave me a thought from start to finish?”

“Flora Robson is one of the most riveting actresses I know.”

I knelt up and swiped him across the shoulder with one of my pillows. “Now I’m tempted not to make my great renunciation.”

“You don’t need to make your great renunciation. There’s one little point we’ve overlooked. You signed a tenancy agreement; you’re committed till the end of August.”

I really had forgotten.

“And even apart from that,” said Oliver, “I suppose a fellow must have his odd occasional whim.”

I felt touched. My eyes glazed over and he must have seen it.

“Idiot! Perhaps you should be committed until the end of August.”

“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “Why don’t we look upon it simply as my pied-à-terre? And this will be my country seat. Naturally I intend to pass most of my time in the country.”

“Good. But why don’t you stop talking rot and come to bed? Those fine new evening clothes must be getting fairly rumpled. Old Davidson would throw a fit.”

“Oh, never mind that,” I said airily. I had lain down again with my head now resting on his chest. “James can press them in the morning.”

There was a pause. Oliver continued stroking my hair. But I knew what he was going to say.

“Why don’t you like James?”

“Well, at least in part, because he doesn’t like me.”

“How can you tell?”

“Darling, are you joking?” I nearly sat up again but felt too comfortable. “It oozes out of every pore. I think he’s probably in love with you himself.”

“What nonsense. In any case I shan’t get rid of him. Not even to please you.”

“Now, have I asked you to get rid of him? I assure you—the last thing I’d want on my conscience!”

“Fine.”

“But all the same … I think he’s the wicked housekeeper in ‘Rebecca’. And only very thinly disguised at that.”

“Mrs Danvers went up in smoke, as I remember.”

“There you are. Her reincarnation.”

“You’re a reincarnation!” said Oliver, laughing. “And when are you going to come to bed?”

“I’m too sleepy. And far too happy as I am. Of whom, anyway?”

“Of whom what, anyway?”

“Am I a reincarnation?”

“Why—naturally!—of your illustrious namesake from the court of King Charles.”

I gave a groan.

“Oh, no! Not him! There was this history man at school. He thought he was a wit. ‘Being difficult again, Wilmot? You’ll grow as evil as he was, mark my words.’”

“Evil?”

“That’s what he said.”

“I’ll tell you what somebody else said. ‘I know he is a devil but he has something of the angel yet undefaced in him.’”

“Pardon?” I sat up again and looked at him. Absently removed a hair from my mouth.

“Well, that’s the way Etherege described him in one of his plays.”

“And you can reel it off just like that?”

“Are you impressed?”

“Tremendously. I really am.” I continued to gaze at him. He was now propped up against the pillows. “But you impress me all the time. From the moment you set me right regarding Epicurus. I thought, ‘Crikey—an intellectual!’ And from then on there’s hardly been a day when I haven’t been impressed by something that you’ve said. In anybody else, I’d think this might be frightening but in you it isn’t frightening in the least.”

I added: “Or been impressed by something that you’ve done. Yet that’s a little different.”

“And to think I could have quarrelled with you even for an instant!” He reached out with both arms and pulled me down again. “But I’d better tell you the truth. My parents couldn’t afford to give me the whole encyclopaedia: I only had the volume D to F. Epicurus—Etherege—even Mrs Danvers. For heaven’s sake don’t ask me about Xenophon.”

“Oh, you poor thing. It must have been the cost of all those tutors!”

At length, reluctantly, I drew away and started to undress.

“Oliver?”

“Yes?”

“Seriously. Do you suppose that without believing in God one can believe in reincarnation?”

“I know Buddhists do. But, I have to confess, I’m not sure how they manage it.”

“Pity.”

“Unless one could say it’s a question of nothing in nature ever getting completely lost; merely changing its form. No wastage of energy or matter.”

“Go on,” I invited, dubiously.

“Well, why should life—whether human or animal—be the only thing which comes to an end, the only manifestation of energy for all time done away with?” He paused. “It’s odd when you come to think of it: nature being so profligate with all those thousands of good ready-made personalities which she tosses away daily, when in some way she keeps on using every other molecule on earth. You’d imagine, wouldn’t you, that minds and souls would be recycled automatically, along with everything else? The Law of the Conservation of Matter. Are you impressed again?”

I threw my shirt at him—and went to pee and clean my teeth.

“Honestly,” he said, when I came back, “there are times when I even impress myself. Ten minutes ago I had no ideas whatever on reincarnation or the continuation of mind and soul. Now I find I could almost be convinced by my own immensely cogent argument.”

His tone was flippant but I sensed that, underneath, he was quite serious. Yet I was now too tired for my interest not to have dwindled. The Law of the Conservation of Matter couldn’t make much impact—chez moi—at five-past-one in the morning.

He said: “So, mark you well, my love. Assuming I die some twenty years before you, I may be keeping an eye on everything you get up to during those final twenty years of yours! Continuously at your side.”

“God, that sounds threatening! I don’t know about rational, or logical, but most certainly threatening.”

“Oh, the sadness of it! It was supposed to sound comforting! I only meant I’d be watching out for you—watching over you—not spying or anything.”

“Well, that’s all right, then.”

I got into bed and snuggled up against him. We put our arms around each other and the topic died. Reincarnation, survival of the soul, watchfulness, the whole caboodle. “I’m glad that you intend to pass most of your time in the country,” he said.

“Mmm. Me, too,” I replied.