She puts him straight to bed. It takes two minutes to find the key, to climb the stairs, to say no no to tea, to find the bedroom and persuade him, like Sweetums, to “lay his ugly head down upon his wretched bed.” He closes his eyes, just blinks, and he’s out like the famous light. Not snoring, that’s a mercy, but breathing slow, asleep. His head can’t take much more jangling.
Neither can hers. That was awful, Burton screeling.
Ivy stands at the window looking down on the street, on the Ace in the distance, the stub tower of the Saab dealer, FairGrounds shut up tight next door. Hugh’s grey van, just visible, says ARGYLLE GALLERY on the side in an elegant serif typeface. Little black swoops link the interchangeable letters, top and bottom.
He should not lose the gallery, Ivy decides. It is his spiritual home. Plus, the apartment is so nice.
She walks around the rooms, touching the wooden shelves, the clean-lined chairs, the kitchen’s shining surfaces. A row of turquoise Le Creuset pots above the cupboards. Someone who likes to cook.
She washes her face with his soap and slooshes water in her mouth to take away the taste of scotch; she takes off her pants and tunic and quietly opens drawers until she finds a T-shirt she can sleep in; she walks once more through the peaceful rooms to turn off all the lights and climbs into Hugh’s bed, curling beside him and bending knee in knee.
In the middle of the night they semi-wake and once more make careful, yielding, boundary-dissolving love. Ivy’s head fills with unexpected visions: a wolf on a winter hillside, a woman bending near the earth to touch a flower. A great map of all the world, made well.
They sleep.