(1)
‘Dear David,
When I woke up this morning there was a moment before I remembered, when I thought it was just another morning, and then I did remember and I got such a shock, I could feel myself blushing. Wasn’t that silly? I’m sure you’d have laughed at me if you’d seen.
I wanted to reach out and touch you but of course there was only Chris. I felt embarrassed when I saw him so I turned over and pretended I was still asleep and thought about you waking up in bed with Cathy. I hope she didn’t notice anything different about you last night. When I got home I felt ever so shaky and very very odd – not like myself at all. I was afraid Chris would ask me what was the matter but luckily he was reading and he didn’t notice.
You were absolutely right when you said we mustn’t let this affect our marriages. If we start feeling guilty it will spoil everything. But as long as we don’t hurt anyone there’s nothing to feel guilty about, is there? I always used to be afraid that having an affair would mean not loving Chris any more and falling in love with someone else, and what a ghastly mess that would be, with the children and everything. I didn’t see how it could possibly work. That’s partly why I didn’t do it – that and never meeting anyone really special. But of course it doesn’t have to mean all that, it can just be what you said yesterday, a sexual friendship. I’m glad you called it that, it sounded so nice and solid – made me feel I could write to you as well as go to bed with you.
Take care.
Gemma’
Now I don’t want you to suppose that Gemma habitually posted her letters unsealed and neatly numbered for future reference, nor that this particular letter just happened to fall out of David’s pocket while he was cleaning the loo and I innocently chanced upon it. No, there’s a little more to it than that, I fear: not entirely to my credit but ultimately justifiable. David did not turn up for work; Gemma did not telephone. I placed the letter on the mantelpiece and went about my business. It was not an immediate decision. I began the day with every intention of passing the letter on to David undefiled. At least, I think I did. But each time I passed it Gemma’s writing reproached me, those careless squiggles of violet ink, which in anyone more sophisticated would be an affectation. Don’t you care? it seemed to say. Don’t you even want to know what I’ve written? A eulogy? A rebuke? A farewell?
I boiled a kettle for fresh coffee and the kitchen filled with steam. David might lie to me about the contents of the letter. Gemma might be too proud to confide in me if she needed help.
I have always been good with my hands. The secret is not to hurry or it will tear. To wait and to be gentle, judging the moment. If I did not read the letter, the symmetry of my design would be incomplete, my creation unfinished. And I was consumed by prurient curiosity. I squirmed with delicious guilt in the steamy kitchen, but my hands were steady. And afterwards, a mere moment with the photo-copying machine, a lucky purchase years before, because I always disliked carbon, it somehow contrives to soil my fingertips and lurk under my nails. I numbered the copy at once because I knew there would be more now she had begun and I like to be orderly, especially in emotional matters.
Making the letter whole again was trickier but I persevered, having no alternative, taking my time. I likened myself to a Japanese surgeon repairing a ravished maidenhead. I was probably even more careful than necessary, in my usual perfectionist way. People do not generally examine the backs of letters very closely, as far as I can tell. They do not expect them to be tampered with, any more than they expect to find their nearest and dearest has committed murder. It is too radical a crime to be perpetrated by somebody one knows intimately. And yet the majority of murders take place in the home, so we are told.
The letter itself was such a bonus. Unoriginal in content and undistinguished in style, it nevertheless represented a degree of intimacy I could not achieve any other way. Because it was not intended for me, it showed me a side of Gemma I had never seen, that no amount of conversation could have revealed because she would have known she was talking to me. It was as if I had watched through the keyhole while she undressed. An unlooked-for gift. I had not thought of her writing letters. I had imagined inhibition, prudence, idleness – all would prevent her. Did I perhaps not know her after all? I had imagined a greater degree of guilt, too; guilt there certainly was, if only in her denial of guilt, but I had expected more. I had not anticipated this lightness, this positive enjoyment. But I was responsible for it. She lay in my hand, exposed.
‘I ought to be very cross with you,’ she said when she finally rang.
‘I can’t imagine why,’ I said primly. ‘It was an accident of fate. Didn’t he tell you? I was called away unexpectedly and it was too late to let you know. You’d already left.’
She actually laughed. ‘I wonder why you’re so bad at telling lies,’ she said, ‘when you get so much practice.’
Sex with David seemed to have sharpened her wits. ‘We’re going to be very sensible,’ she said, ‘and not let it affect anything. He still loves his wife and of course I love Chris.’
‘Of course.’
‘So it’s not a love affair, it’s a—’ She hesitated and I wondered if she would actually use his words. But evidently they were too private, for she went on, ‘just an adventure.’
I wondered if she knew yet that was not what she wanted.
‘It will do you good,’ I suggested.
‘And my marriage,’ she said quickly. ‘I won’t be so tiresome and Chris will be happier with me.’
‘And you with him.’
‘Yes.’
There was a long pause: I almost wondered if she had gone away to fetch something. Sometimes she did disappear without warning if one of the children suddenly needed her.
She said, ‘Was David pleased with my letter?’
I smiled. ‘He hasn’t got it yet. He took the day off.’
‘Oh.’ A world of disappointment in her voice.
‘You must have worn him out,’ I said.
‘I wish you wouldn’t make jokes like that, you’re going to spoil everything.’ She sounded quite cross.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know it was sacred.’
‘It’s not… it’s just… oh, I hate not having any privacy.’
I said, ‘I shall make myself as unobtrusive as possible.’
‘I know you will.’ As always, she softened instantly, one of her most endearing qualities. ‘So my letter’s still there.’
‘Sitting on my mantelpiece. It’s quite safe.’
When he had finished reading the letter he looked smug and put it in his pocket with the casual air of a man who was accustomed to such tributes.
‘The fish is hooked,’ he said.
I thought this remark in poor taste but ignored it and asked instead why she had written. I was interested to see how far he would lie if I gave him the opportunity.
‘It’s another way of touching me,’ he said.
I was impressed: I had not credited him with so much perception.
‘She’s so lovely,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. (I could see very little work would be done today.) ‘She really is. She deserves someone nicer.’
‘She already has someone nicer,’ I said. ‘That’s the whole point.’
He smiled. ‘It’s like seducing a child,’ he said. ‘She’s soft and gentle, ignorant and curious.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it.’
‘I was in a play about it once.’ He shrugged, looked away, evasive. I wondered how much of his life was rooted in unreality. ‘That was a line from the play, if you really want to know.’
‘It doesn’t sound like a very good play,’ I said critically.
‘It was all right. At least I was working.’
I said, ‘She rang up.’
‘Yes. She would.’
‘To talk to me,’ I said. ‘Not to you.’
‘Same thing. You’re a link. I bet she talked about me.’
‘You’re very confident,’ I said, ‘aren’t you?’
‘You set it up,’ he said. ‘You’ve only yourself to blame.’
I did not like the associations of the word ‘blame’.
‘For what?’
‘Anything that happens. It’s out of your control now.’
‘Don’t be too sure,’ I said.
‘Oh, believe me. There’s nothing you can do but watch. But that’s all right. You enjoy that, don’t you?’
He had my measure. I watched him uncomfortably, annoyed that he was looking more than ever attractive, as if Gemma had rubbed off on him.
‘You’d like me to tell you all about her,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t you?’
‘In the Middle Ages,’ I said, ‘lovers had to be discreet.’
‘So the next time we want to meet here, you’ll discreetly go out?’
(2)
‘Dear David,
I feel such a beginner. I don’t care what you say, I simply don’t believe you haven’t done this lots of times before. You know all about it and what to do and say. I don’t just mean making love – although I’m sure you’ve had much more experience than me – I mean the whole thing of how to behave – how to conduct this sort of affair. I don’t think you can possibly remember what it’s like to be new to it all. Like changing schools and you don’t know the rules or the slang – or going on holiday and suddenly everyone’s talking a foreign language and driving on the wrong side of the road.
I don’t even know if you like my letters. When I was engaged to Chris I used to write to him and he wrote back. It was only after we were married he told me he thought it had been silly writing letters when we lived in the same village.
But I don’t think that’s the point of letters – you don’t have to be miles apart – it’s the thing of being able to talk to someone whenever you feel like it, and you can’t always pick up the phone. Half the time I don’t even know where you are and I have to wait for you to ring me. I think I wait much better if I can write letters.
Chris still hasn’t noticed anything. I’m very glad but isn’t it odd? Because I think I’m so different. I don’t want him to notice but I feel he ought to. When someone you’ve lived with for years doesn’t notice such a big change it makes you wonder what else they can’t see.
Lucky for us, anyway.
Gemma’
She was begging him not to be like Chris, ever, in any detail. And disappointed at the same time that Chris was not instantly transformed by her adultery. (Wasn’t it magic after all?) I invited myself to tea for the novel pleasure of observing the complacent cuckold at close quarters. He greeted me absently; he was deeply engrossed in some volume detailing the latest refinements in rubber, plastic and chemical devices for circumventing the tedious consequences of human fertility. I wondered which method he and Gemma favoured. The tedious consequences of their own fertility, the socially acceptable pair, played at our feet. They were not nearly as attractive as Gemma had been at their age: they had inherited too much of their father – a tribute more to Gemma’s fidelity than her good taste. But it could have been worse: they might have resembled Beatrice.
I had not seen Gemma since the affair began, David having banished me before she arrived for their second tryst. Seeing me might make her self-conscious, he said, and the second time was always tricky, neither novel nor established. I went out reluctantly, yet with relief: I was not sure I felt ready to face them both together. The happy couple I had created. I walked a little, but it was a dispiriting winter’s day so I went to the cinema and watched an indifferent film. When I got home they had gone but they had been more careless and relaxed: towels ruffled and the bedspread creased, a couple of windows conspicuously open to destroy the scent of love. I was rewarded for my co-operation. They had given me a little more of themselves.
Now I searched Gemma’s face for signs of change – sensuality, anxiety, fatigue – but she looked exactly the same. She was excessively nice to her husband, though; I thought he must be a fool not to notice something was wrong. I studied him with satisfaction: it was my doing that his wife was unfaithful and he did not know. He was an ancient figure of fun. So much for his boasting that he and she had a perfect understanding. So much for his attempts to exclude and humiliate me. I was sweetly revenged.
Gemma cornered me in the kitchen. ‘Oh, it is good to see you,’ she said, kissing me with sudden fervour on the cheek, adding swiftly, ‘I do hate weekends now.’
I saw what she meant: no hope of a telephone call, no chance to write letters.
She said, ‘When can we come to the flat again?’
‘Whenever you like.’
‘We weren’t sure.’ The pronoun gave her obvious pleasure. ‘It seems awful asking you to go out. And of course I mustn’t come up to town too often or it will look funny.’
The intoxication of deceit made her tremble slightly. She looked very beautiful and I wanted to kiss her.
Later on Beatrice arrived, admired the children and pretended to be pleased to see me. We all ate an uneasy tea together.
‘Gemma looks well,’ said Beatrice, puzzled. Like a dog, she picked up the scent; I had not bargained for that. But she lacked the skill to interpret.
Gemma avoided my eyes.
‘It does me good getting up to town more often,’ she said.
‘I hope you’ll do the Christmas shopping while you’re there,’ Christopher remarked. ‘Less than three weeks to go now.’
We all received this startling information with the silence it deserved.
‘Of course I will,’ Gemma said eventually. ‘That’s the whole point.’
‘If I knew when Gemma’s going to town,’ Beatrice said, aggrieved, ‘I could ask for a lift.’
I noted that for the second time she had not addressed her daughter directly but commented upon her to the rest of us, as if she were a household pet.
‘But you like to plan ahead,’ said Gemma. ‘And I usually go at short notice. On impulse.’
‘Or when I invite her,’ I added helpfully. ‘I’m very impulsive.’
Beatrice said, ‘I haven’t seen you, Alex, for a long time.’
‘No, I’ve been busy.’
‘Still on Troilus and Criseyde?’ Christopher asked. He always remembered. I was pleased and yet I resented his courtesy. He was only polite because he thought he had won. He discounted me.
‘Yes.’ I amused myself picturing the horns on his forehead.
Beatrice said irritably, ‘Aren’t you ever going to get to the end of it?’
‘It’s a very long poem.’
The children whined to get down from the table.
‘Perhaps Gemma could help me with it later,’ I said, glimpsing a plan. ‘Do some typing. Take dictation now and then.’
Christopher said, ‘Gemma? You might enjoy that. You’re always saying you don’t have enough to do.’
Beatrice said, ‘Can’t you use a dictaphone?’
I said, ‘I hate machines.’
Gemma said, ‘I might come. If you ask me nicely.’
(3)
‘Dear David,
Such an awful weekend. Friends of Chris to dinner on Friday and they stayed late and drank a lot and I had such a headache. My own fault, I suppose, for drinking brandy, but I had to do something to stay awake. Then Chris felt sexy after they’d gone – the first time since you and I began – I was amazed, usually it’s me running after him, especially late at night. So I had to be nice to him. I felt very odd. I tried to analyse it so I could tell you. I was sort of excited but reluctant as well. And I felt a bit of a scarlet woman. He also seemed much more of a stranger. Does any of that make sense? Anyway it was all right eventually. It took longer than usual because he’d had so much wine, and I kept thinking of you and then wondering if I ought to. I don’t mean pretending he was you or anything like that, I couldn’t do that, but just remembering and wondering if anything I’ve learned might show up – would he think I was different? I know you said it ought to help and make it more exciting and in a way it did, I suppose. Anyway it’s over and that’s a relief because I’ve been dreading it as a sort of test. Silly, I know.
Then on Saturday we had a children’s party because Jonathan and Stephanie have been to so many. I used to hope just two a year, for birthdays, would be enough but it wasn’t so now we have one midway between, plus Christmas. It really is a lot. I’m not sure who it’s for really – them or Chris’s patients so they’ll all think how lovely he is. Anyway what seemed like hundreds of children turned up (I think it was fifteen really) and made the most incredible noise all afternoon playing games, and ate and drank like pigs, and then some of them were sick before we could get them to the loo and others kept crying and one in particular – a real little Hitler – bashed another one quite badly and I had to explain to his mother why he was going home covered in sticking plaster when he’d arrived perfectly fit. She didn’t take it too well and I can’t say I blame her, poor woman. Chris thinks the Hitler child is disturbed and maybe he is, I don’t really care, I’d just like to stop him bashing other kids – and thank God it wasn’t one of mine he bashed or I’d have had to explain to his mother why I’d murdered him. By the time they all left I was so exhausted I had to have three gins before I could even think of putting my two to bed and getting supper. (Chris was out on a call.)
I’m so glad you have children too. I don’t think I’d dare write all this – or even say it – to someone who hadn’t. And it means we really understand each other’s point of view in other ways too. About marriage and everything.
Sunday was better, thank God, because Uncle Alex came and actually dropped hints in front of Chris about me going to work for him in London. Just think – we could meet more often – it would be a perfect alibi. Wasn’t it sweet of him? Chris seemed to think it was a good idea too! (I was very casual about it.) But it spoilt it a bit that Mummy was there – I couldn’t really relax and enjoy myself. She was in an awfully strange mood and kept giving me funny looks. She can’t possibly suspect anything, that would be ridiculous, but she was sort of watchful and grumpy. Of course she and Uncle Alex have never really got on, it could be just that. I wonder if you’ll ever meet her. I bet you could charm her. She loves Chris of course because she thinks he’s so suitable for me, and she’s a bit of a snob so she adores him being a doctor. It’s funny. You would represent everything she dislikes – but I’m sure you’d get round her somehow.
It amazes me to think of Cathy not wanting you any more when I want you so much.
See you soon.
Gemma’
He said furiously, ‘Another time just you keep your nose out of my affairs.’
I was surprised. From my own point of view I had found the letter wanting in sensuality and heavy with domesticity, but I could not see why it should enrage him. And he certainly could not know that I had read it: I had resealed it with particular care. A work of art, no less.
‘I don’t understand you,’ I said mildly, impressed by my own forbearance. The soft answer that is alleged to turn away wrath. I had learnt from my mistakes with Christopher that it does not pay to lose control of a situation by losing one’s temper, although the appearance of doing so can of course be useful at times. This thought immediately led me to wonder if David, as an actor, was in fact acting now. The rage seemed disproportionate.
‘She says you’ve offered her a job here. So we can meet more often. You must be out of your fucking mind.’
I said, ‘I thought you’d be pleased. She’s very keen.’
‘I know that, for Christ’s sake. But she won’t be if you set it up so she sees me every bloody day.’
I said, ‘You’re very modest.’
‘Jesus, don’t you know anything? What’s all that reading done for you, what about the course of true love and all that not running smooth? God almighty, you’re trying to make it so fucking smooth we’ll skid right off the end.’
I was amused and impressed. I have always been generously inclined to encourage the talented few.
‘That’s a very vivid turn of phrase,’ I said approvingly. (It was more: it was accurate.)
‘Don’t give me any of that academic shit. It’s my life I’m talking about. It’s me who’s having Gemma, not you – much as you’d like to – and it’s my decision how often I have her.’
‘In my flat,’ I said.
Suddenly he sagged, like a puppet, Petrouchka, the sawdust draining out of him.
‘There are other places we could meet,’ he said, with childish bravado. ‘I’ve got plenty of friends.’
‘Of course.’ In fact I could not imagine him having any, given his neurotic and moody disposition. ‘But isn’t it safer and easier and more comfortable for you to meet here?’ There was a cold silence, while we surveyed each other. We were, of course, discussing supremacy rather than convenience or erotic tactics. Who, in vulgar parlance, was to call the shots. We were carving up Gemma between us as if she were Poland at the Congress ofVienna in 1815. Presently he agreed that it was safer and easier and more comfortable for them to meet here, but I felt there was something suspect about the way he said it. He seemed so relieved to be able to agree with me, I began to believe then (as I still do) that there was something in him that corresponded to something in me, that we were equally corrupt, a matched pair, and that it satisfied this something in him to use my flat as much as it satisfied this something in me to have it used. He did not want to meet Gemma anywhere else and he was grateful to me for making it possible for him to go on meeting her here, for practical reasons, without loss of face, without admitting the truth. Meeting elsewhere, in the home of one of his hypothetical friends, would have evaporated some essential spice, the scent of evil, the aroma of corruption – whatever you like to call it. The affair would have become antiseptic, bland. It needed to be acted out in the same environment where it had been generated, under my aegis.
None of that could be said: we picked it out of the silence. Looking at him as we waited, dark and sulky, chewing his fingernails, fidgeting, glancing out of the window, lighting one cigarette from another, I thought that despite his distressingly offensive personal habits, which I tried in vain to overlook, he and I were in fact very much alike. Devious planners, both of us. Scheming and plotting in the heavy silence. Otherwise he would never have acquiesced to my dream so readily. He was on my wavelength. We were related.
‘The point is,’ he said, breaking the long silence and papering the cracks very obviously, ‘she’s got to want to see me more often than she can see me, otherwise it won’t work.’
‘Right,’ I said.
‘These early stages are very delicate,’ he went on, like an artist or a market gardener. ‘You’ve got to get the balance exactly right. Later on it doesn’t matter so much.’
‘You mentioned true love,’ I said avidly.
‘A figure of speech.’
‘But surely that’s what she really needs.’ It was certainly what I myself needed her to have. I was bored with the limitations and inadequacies of sexual friendship and adventure. Was that all I had exerted myself for? Where, to put it crudely, were all the blood and guts? Troilus and Criseyde had not messed about like this, enjoying a pale safe imitation of the real thing. ‘Isn’t that why she keeps writing to you?’ I demanded crossly.
‘She writes because she’s lonely.’ He made the statement as though it were obvious and any fool should know it. ‘She thinks she wants sex but really she needs someone to talk to. Mrs Salmon was the same. Most women are. They just want someone to hug and someone to listen. It’s ludicrously simple. If the average man only realised that, he could have the time of his life.’
I considered this piece of wisdom, so carelessly dispensed. It seemed desperately sad, but I could not afford to let myself become sentimental at this stage in the game.
‘Anyway,’ he said, without real interest in the subject, ‘why are you so obsessed with true love?’
I answered snappily, ‘Perhaps because I’ve never experienced it.’
‘What about when you were young?’ An unnecessarily cruel thrust, I felt.
‘It’s not a matter of age,’ I replied with dignity. ‘It’s a matter of temperament.’
‘Come off it. We’ve all been through the mill at least once.’
Really he was so crude. All this coarse and outdated slang. It was just as well for him that he was good-looking or he would never have had any success in life at all.
‘Perhaps some of us learn from experience sooner than others.’
That would have to satisfy him. I was concerned with other people’s exposure, not my own. He actually laughed.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Let’s just say I grew up at a very early age.’
He lit yet another cigarette from the stub of the old one, a detestable habit. It was extremely irritating that I still found him attractive. I hoped something bad would happen to him, and soon. A domestic disaster, since his career was already gratifyingly in ruins: perhaps the geyser could explode, his wife and children fall ill, the landlord suggest eviction. It was, after all, too early for Criseyde to betray Troilus. The affair had not yet run its appointed course.
‘It sounds to me,’ he said judiciously, ‘as if someone hurt you pretty badly.’
I poured myself another martini, ignoring his empty glass. ‘You’ve been reading too much paperback psychology,’ I said.
(4)
‘Dear David,
Sorry I had to hang up so quickly only Chris walked in just at that moment. Of course I was thrilled about your part – it’s marvellous news – but does it really mean we can’t meet for two whole weeks? Seems an awfully long time and with Xmas so near – I don’t know, I find this time of year so depressing nowadays and I used to enjoy it, I suppose because when I was young it was all done for me whereas now it’s up to me to do it all. It just seems like a lot of shopping for food and drinks and presents, all for people I don’t really like – well, most of them anyway. We will be able to meet before Xmas, won’t we? I was so looking forward to having a really leisurely lunch with heaps of time to make love, and I’ve got such plans for your present.
I suppose it really is impossible to meet if you’re rehearsing every day and I know work has to come first, but if you do get any time off do ring up, won’t you, I can get up to town at very short notice to do shopping or have lunch with Uncle A. – at least till the children break up, then of course it takes more organising. Anyway, I hope the rehearsals go well.
Keep in touch.
Gemma’
In terms of content, hardly worth the effort of opening and resealing, I thought crossly as I made it good. However, the plaintive tone was appealing and I was quite fascinated by the child-like confidence with which she revealed her feelings. No attempt at dissimulation. No suspicion that anything she said might be used against her. She was so simple and trusting. It was probably that very quality that endeared her to both of us – and would doubtless be her downfall.
I invited her to lunch: she was pale, restless, lacking her usual appetite. I thought I even detected reluctance to come to the flat knowing he would not be there, which annoyed me: I did not want to be dependent on him for her visits, when it should be the other way round. She fidgeted, didn’t appreciate the food, drank too much and seemed to wander about touching the furniture to soothe herself – as if where David’s duster had rested, she too could be at peace. It was true that he had a job: he had told me about it with disgusting smugness. But it certainly didn’t mean he had no time to meet Gemma: that was policy. He was in fact still cleaning my flat (though at peculiar hours such as seven o’clock at night) and the part he was so nauseatingly triumphant about only amounted to a few lines, as I later discovered when I forced myself to watch it on the television. He was playing another of his petty crooks (which seemed appropriate enough) and playing it rather badly. I suppose when you work so seldom you get out of practice.
Gemma, however, was clearly bored by his absence and anxious about the Christmas festivities. As if to reassure herself that these would actually take place, she asked, after a lot of fumbling around the subject, if they could use my spare room. She meant with their own sheets and towels and bathrobe, as a sort of holy place undefiled by me (unlike my bed, my sofa and my carpet) but it took her a long time to say so. ‘Just to have somewhere private that really belongs to us,’ she said finally, then added with a flash of her old spirit, ‘like renting a room without actually paying for it. You wouldn’t mind, would you? Our own special place, in your flat, only separate. Where we could leave things and come back to them.’
I couldn’t resist saying, ‘You mean like Oswald and Miranda?’
She looked at me calmly, her eyes unclouded: the vision of the room, like a shrine, had uplifted her. ‘Oh. I’d forgotten about them.’
After she had gone I inspected the spare room. It had an impoverished air, like all rooms that are seldom used: it seemed to have collected the worst furniture, and not just the worst but the most ill-assorted. Nothing matched; periods were jumbled together; the curtains and bedspread were thin and cold. It would require a lot of doing up, and it needed a large mirror. Gemma deserved the best. On the other hand I resented the very idea of spending money to benefit David, to whom I had already handed a pearl beyond price. It was an interesting problem, a genuine dilemma, and I lit a rare cigar and poured a not so rare brandy so that I might perch on its horns in greater comfort. I liked the idea of creating a love-nest; I liked even more the idea of disporting myself in it after the lovers had gone. It would remove once and for all the bother of working out where the action had taken place – all that undignified sniffing and peering. It would concentrate the essence of the affair in one room, rather like having a chapel in one’s own home. I could light candles and burn incense, if the spirit moved me. I was impressed that it was Gemma who had thought of it, out of a desire for privacy, no doubt, which she had mentioned before; but it was nevertheless a creative idea and I had not thought Gemma capable of such artistry. I only hoped she did not plan to add a key: I doubted if I could be as adept at picking locks as opening letters, and it would be boring to be forced to behave like a burglar under one’s own roof.
When David arrived to do his post-rehearsal stint and collect his mail, I was tempted to tell him what Gemma had suggested, but I restrained myself. It was amusing to know something he didn’t, so instead, as a kind of compromise, I got him to clean the spare room; I pretended uninvited guests. He was tired and bad-tempered, requiring several drinks, but it was worth it to me, knowing that he was himself preparing the temple for his own use. I had been annoyed and jealous that his policy with Gemma was working so well, that his scheme could induce pallor and tension and anxiety so simply, and I had not thought of it, because of my impatience for action. But this, listening to the growl of the vacuum cleaner, watching him dusting and polishing, this made it all worthwhile. The balance was restored.
(5)
‘Darling David,
God, it was fantastic this afternoon. I didn’t know I could come so many times so quickly – I really had no idea it could be like that. What are you doing to me? You’re going to make me so dissatisfied at home – no, I don’t mean that, it will be all right, the way we said it would be right at the start, but it is going to be harder than I thought, like being two people. I feel so split – the good wife at home going through the motions once a fortnight and then today with you when I went right over the top so many times. I wish to God I could describe it properly so you’d really know how fantastic you make me feel but I can’t – oh, why can’t I? That long slow climb – only no effort – and then at the very top knowing I’m going to go right over the edge and nothing can stop me and down I go like that dream of falling only marvellous not frightening like blacking out for a second because the feeling’s so strong it’s as if I’ll explode if I stay conscious. No wonder people used to think it took years off your life – or was it days? Worth it anyway. Who wants to live long without that feeling? I keep thinking of skiing – the chair lift and the downhill racer – but that just makes it sound silly. Oh hell. I do so want you to know the pleasure you give me – I can’t believe I do anything like as much for you but I wish I could. God how I wish I could.
It was amazing when you rang – I really was resigned to waiting two weeks – as soon as I heard your voice I got such a pain because I wanted you so much. I’d been trying not to think about it because I didn’t want to masturbate, it always depresses me afterwards. And I thought I’d hate us only having half an hour but instead it was wonderful.
Oh I must stop, I’m just rambling on and not saying half what I want to say. I’ll keep my fingers crossed about Xmas but at least we’ve had today. I must be very careful or Chris really will get suspicious if I keep going around with a goofy smile on my face!
Don’t get run over, will you?
Gemma’
Well, that was better. Worth all my manual dexterity and the steam and the glue and the photo-copying machine. Worth it to know that Gemma had finally discovered the delights of multiple orgasm. (I envied her.) Worth it that I had been summarily turfed out into the cold street so that they could have what David inelegantly described as a quickie. Myself, I would have thought that a quickie involving multiple orgasm was a contradiction in terms, but his definition was half an hour hard at it with no time for chat. Even more to the point, Gemma had been summoned at only two hours’ notice after ten days’ starvation: it was a kind of test case, apparently, to see how highly motivated she was to rearrange her domestic life on the instant in the interest of sexual fulfilment, and she had passed with colours flying. Her reward was to be a leisurely erotic and gastronomic treat on the eve of Christmas Eve, but she didn’t know that yet. ‘I suppose you want me to cook,’ I said to him, and he said well, he couldn’t and wouldn’t, having neither the talent nor the wish. And he certainly couldn’t afford to take her out, he added, in case I was thinking of suggesting that. As with Beatrice, I felt uneasy at the mention of money: was he perhaps angling for a rise? It seemed more appropriate that he should pay me, or at least work for nothing to show his appreciation of the privileges I was bestowing on him; and in any case were the television people not foolishly paying him some vast amount for his dubious services – enough at least to buy Gemma a meal? Tactfully, I attempted to imply all that, only to be greeted with a diatribe: Cathy was (allegedly) shrieking like a fishwife about unpaid bills and the impossibility of providing Christmas festivities for the children on the pittance he gave her; the gas, electricity and telephone seemed in imminent danger of disconnection. All in all, my ill-wishing had worked well: the picture painted was of such financial blackness that his only hope of a square and romantic meal this side of next year would be one provided by me.
And of course I wanted to do it. Only not to be taken for granted. I like to be cajoled. As often as possible.
After he had gone (the so-called quickie representing a rehearsal unexpectedly cut short), I brooded. It sounds like something connected with old women or hens, but there is no other word for it. Obsession is a strange device for concentrating the mind: it takes over your life: it replaces everything else. I looked it up in the dictionary once and it means (in practice) exactly what it says (in theory) – not something that can be claimed for every word in the language, alas. ‘The action of besieging,’ I read, ‘investment, siege.’ I had certainly invested a great deal in Gemma, and my flat was frequently assailed. ‘Actuation by the devil or an evil spirit from without; the fact of being thus actuated.’ My only quarrel here, perhaps a little petty, was concerned with the direction from which the evil spirit came. I preferred to consider it very much a spirit from within; I flattered myself that I could produce, with total concentration, as much mischief as the devil in an idle moment. One yields to the experts, of course: in my case, more effort was required. The amateur cannot hope to surpass the professional in any sphere, but I believe equality can be achieved by perseverance and dedication and a bit of overtime.
Perhaps my dictionary had been compiled before it was acceptable to assume responsibility for such matters oneself: they had to be superstitiously attributed to a supernatural agency or else the sky would fall in. (Not that such an event would be entirely unwelcome: it would at least make a change and, incidentally, fulfil one of my favourite fantasies.) Finally, ‘the action of any influence, notion or “fixed idea”, which persistently assails or vexes’. Well, that seemed to me exactly what Gemma’s and David’s affair was doing to me – persistently assailing and (occasionally) vexing. And it certainly was a fixed idea: no other notion or influence ever entered my head. You may ask, But surely there were other people, friends, work, leisure activities? and I answer, Yes, there were, a few, or at least the choice of them, but they did not count, they were motions to be gone through, trivia, refuse; they might as well not have existed (and in a sense they did not). My whole life was given over to the creation of a doomed love affair; and why not indeed? Sufficient artistic preoccupation, you might think, for anyone.
So I brooded: hen, old woman, obsessive – what you will. Which is why Gemma’s letter afforded me particular relief. I did not much admire her style, the ineffectual efforts to describe orgasm (a rock on which far greater talents have perished) but I did admire her courage in attempting such an unlikely feat. A noble failure, I thought. And it was rewarding to know that the whole scene (as Oswald and Miranda would have called it) was hotting up nicely.
At my age you do not expect surprises, nor are they welcome; so I was most disagreeably taken aback when the telephone rang next day and a cool, unmistakable voice I had heard only once before said, ‘Mr Kyle?’ in tones of resignation.
I said yes, as one is bound to do.
‘This is Catherine Meredith,’ the voice announced unnecessarily, for who else could it have been? That light, clear voice was unforgettably recorded in my head. Neither pleasant nor unpleasant, in fact conspicuously neutral, but instantly recognisable for the rest of my life, if I live (which God forbid) for a hundred years.
‘I’m afraid we really will have to have a talk,’ said the voice, not angry, not sad, but suggesting duty and commonsense like a dentist. ‘Would tomorrow suit you?’
‘A talk?’ I said, playing for time and feeling it run out simultaneously. ‘What about?’
‘You’re an intelligent man,’ said the voice wearily. ‘About your niece and my husband, of course, what else? And tomorrow really is the best day because David’s in the studio, as you must know, so we’re bound to be undisturbed. Unless your niece turns up, of course.’
She made us sound like conspirators already. (But how had she found out?)
‘Mrs Meredith,’ I said, ‘why do we have to have a talk at all?’ I was cooking at the time for David’s and Gemma’s love-feast only two days ahead; she could hardly have rung at a more unsuitable moment. ‘I’m sure I’ll be delighted to meet you at any time, but what is this urgency?’
She sighed. ‘Surely you realise there may be a tragedy if one of us doesn’t take steps to prevent it.’
There ensued a long silence which it occurred to me Mrs Meredith had no intention of breaking. Short of hanging up on her, which etiquette forbade, I was obliged to answer.
‘All right, Mrs Meredith,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. What time would be convenient?’
She answered crisply, ‘Any time between nine and three.’
I shuddered at such possibilities. ‘Shall we say half past eleven?’ That way there seemed a good chance of getting rid of her before lunch, although I very much wished I had the courage to suggest half past two.
‘That’ll be fine. I’ll see you then.’
She seemed about to go; I was forced to add, ‘Don’t you want my address?’
‘It’s on the envelope,’ she said, and hung up.
So that was how she had found out. I warmed to Mrs Meredith, a reader of other people’s letters, like myself. My curiosity was aroused; I should be happy to meet her. Mrs Meredith was clearly a woman to be reckoned with. But tomorrow? It was rather soon. I returned to my pâté, my chestnut stuffing, my chocolate mousse (for obviously as much as possible must be prepared in advance to be eaten cold in order to allow the heat of passion to rage freely.) I was less relaxed; there was no doubt about that. Only the roast would be actually cooking on the day, and they could lift that from the oven and carve it without too much effort, and content themselves with cold vegetables. What was I to say to Mrs Meredith and, worse, what was she to say to me? The chocolate mousse, normally the easiest thing in the world, promptly gave me trouble, as if sensing my agitation.
I slept badly that night. The hours raced and crawled with a peculiar jerky motion all their own. I took pills, slept, woke, drank water and looked at the clock. The night seemed endless. Catherine Meredith, unknown and inescapable, loomed before me. I longed to dream of her, as if to prepare myself, but she eluded me, very much a waking phantom, a hideous (or delectable) reality. David’s wife. What was I expecting? I tried to get foreign stations on the radio to ease my suspense and fell instead into a jumble of sound. Towards dawn I slept soundly, exhausted by my imagination; at eight the telephone rang. It could be no one else: she must be ringing to cancel our bizarre appointment. I seized the instrument and croaked a greeting. Pips. Then a dialling tone.
After that there was no hope for me. A wrong number or a cruel joke, it made no difference; I lay awake, my head throbbing, while I pictured David and Catherine, Gemma and Christopher, all cosily tucked up in their respective beds. Or were they already rising to deal with their revolting children? No matter. As far as I knew, they had spent the night in peaceful marital slumber. They had not been racked as I was by doubt and uncertainty, or if they were, they were not alone to endure it. Moreover, Gemma was looking forward to the trysting day, David and Christopher were absorbed in their work, and Catherine Meredith, who would no doubt turn out to be a prize bitch, was preparing to make my life a misery. Why had I ever imagined it would be a pleasure to meet her?
Somebody once said that not sleeping doesn’t matter so long as you are resting. I lay in bed stubbornly until ten o’clock, trying to rest, but the fact that I had not slept preyed on my mind. At ten I rose and went lugubriously through my morning routine: breakfast, bath, clothes. There was no post. No letters to steam open. (It was surprising I did not open them all that way by now.) And just as well; my hands would have been unsteady. I was totally preoccupied with the irrational fear that Catherine Meredith would somehow get the better of me.
I was ready early, sitting miserably waiting for her. For a man of my age to feel at such a disadvantage was ludicrous and undignified. I should have been excited. I should have laid plans. I should have had the upper hand – or at the very least felt assured that we would meet on equal terms. Instead I sat huddled, a miserable sight in the mirror, like a chicken fluffing out its feathers. I awaited my fate.
She was precisely on time, as I had known she would be. I would have staked what was left of my life on that. The owner of that voice could not be late. The bell struck a solid chill into my soul, like an ice cube descending whole into the stomach. On my way to the door I felt myself putting on a brave face: I knew the feel of the stiff mask over my skin.
‘Mr Kyle.’
‘Mrs Meredith.’
I was so nervous I hardly saw her as I let her in. Once in the sitting-room she glanced all round it searchingly as though looking for dust. I half expected her to run a finger over the furniture. While she inspected the room, I began to look at her.
‘Well,’ she said at last, drawing out the word, ‘he certainly does you proud. I’m glad about that. I’m glad he’s good at something.’
She sat down and lit a cigarette.
I said, ‘Mrs Meredith, what can I do for you?’
‘You might as well call me Catherine.’ She sat unmoving, unblinking: as cold and still as a corpse. Whatever I had expected, I had not been prepared for this extremity of thinness and pallor. Her hair was pale brown, her eyes grey, her skin beige. And not an atom of make-up. I was used to women who painted their faces. There seemed no colour in any part of her, just luminous bones. Even her clothes were neutral: a straw-coloured shirt and a long woollen skirt the shade of putty.
‘After all,’ she said, ‘we’re probably going to see a lot of each other.’
I thought that extremely unlikely and said so, hoping I had not also revealed the intense panic I felt at such a prospect.
‘Oh yes,’ she said, her voice quite expressionless. ‘These things always take time, Mr Kyle. Believe me.’
‘In that case,’ I said politely, ‘would you like to call me Alexander?’
She studied me and shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘After all, you’re a lot older than I am and I don’t think it’s very polite calling older people by their first names, do you?’
Had there been any wind in my sails, that would certainly have taken it out. Both she and David seemed hell-bent on reminding me how old I was – as if I could ever forget it. In my mind the sand slipped through the hourglass continuously, causing me both terror and relief.
‘At my great age I hardly know any older people.’ It was not that I was offended exactly: her manner was matter of fact enough to take the sting out of her words. But I judged it best to lighten the proceedings if I possibly could.
She smiled. ‘I’m not planning to use your name very often anyway,’ she said. ‘I don’t like names much, I don’t find them very useful. There’s no doubt we’re talking to each other, so what do we need names for?’
‘Quite.’ It occurred to me that she was perhaps slightly mad, but in a very logical way that appealed to me. I began to like her and my apprehension eased. ‘Nevertheless, I intend to use your name a lot,’ I said, with more of my old glib style, ‘because it’s so pretty.’
‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’ she said, as one might remark on the weather. ‘It’s the prettiest thing about me. Not as pretty as her name, though. Gemma.’
The name fell between us like a challenger’s gauntlet.
‘Now that really is a pretty name,’ she went on smoothly. ‘Does it suit her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I thought it probably would. David usually chooses pretty girls. I think it’s because he’s so pretty himself, it’s a kind of mirror thing. I was an aberration on his part, but that was so long ago, he hadn’t really got his eye in.’
Then she shut up and stared at me. Was I supposed to contradict her? She was certainly not pretty but there was something obliquely attractive about her. However, in my (albeit limited) experience, that is not the kind of remark that passes for a compliment among women.
‘Well, Catherine,’ I said uneasily, glancing at my watch, ‘can I give you some coffee? Or a drink?’
It was twenty-five to twelve. I could hardly believe it. Only five minutes had passed.
She said, ‘Thank you. I’d like a large scotch. I drink rather a lot, I should warn you, but I never get drunk. It seems rather a waste.’
I poured the scotch, and gin for myself. She declined soda or water.
‘Ice?’
‘Neat.’
I splashed tonic into my gin; I needed all the courage I could get, no matter from what source. I added one ice cube and then I added some more gin.
‘Thank you.’ She took a large mouthful of scotch: no one could have called it a sip, and a gulp suggests panic, which she was obviously far from feeling. ‘Well,’ she said, lighting a fresh cigarette from the stump of the old one, just like David, ‘I suppose I should come to the point. All I really want is to save your poor niece from my husband.’
I swallowed gin and tonic and gin rather rapidly.
‘Unless she wants to suffer, of course. If she does, she’s really chosen the right person.’
I leaned back in my chair. ‘Tell me more.’
‘Well, if you care for her at all, you’ll want to save her too.’ She downed some more scotch. ‘Oh, it’s not entirely his fault. Being out of work so much doesn’t help. If someone would actually pay him to create drama, he wouldn’t need so much of it in his spare time. But since all his time is spare, as it were, what else can he do to justify his existence? I almost feel sorry for him at times.’
‘And for Gemma?’ I was beginning to enjoy myself.
‘Oh yes.’ She looked surprised. ‘Of course. She’s not to blame. David can be quite irresistible when he chooses. He even was to me, once, though it’s hard to remember now.’ She drained her glass. ‘Funny thing really. He’s a very good actor in private life. It’s only when he’s working that he’s so bad. I suppose that’s why people don’t employ him very often. It does seem ironic, doesn’t it? He spends his life acting, he really ought to earn his living at something else. That’s why I’m so glad he’s got this cleaning job.’ She looked round again appreciatively. ‘I mean, this room is beautifully clean. What a pity he thinks it’s beneath his dignity as a career.’
Her monologue had been delivered in a calm, reflective voice as if I were in her consulting room, not she in my home, and we were discussing a patient.
I asked, ‘Then why does he do it so well?’
‘Because he’s acting the part of a cleaner. You’re just lucky he’s chosen to act a good one.’
I reached out a hand for her empty glass. ‘Catherine,’ I said, ‘let me get you another drink.’
‘That would be lovely. You see, I talk a lot as well.’
I poured her another large scotch and topped up my gin.
‘Thank you. Actually, you seem to drink as fast as I do.’
I was startled by this observation, coming from someone who thought it impolite to use my Christian name. ‘Sometimes,’ I said cautiously.
‘I’m always cheered when I meet another drinker. It’s one of the few things David and I have in common – apart from the children, that is. Of course he always says I drove him to drink. That’s one of the best things about marriage – having someone to blame.’
Again she stopped and stared at me. ‘You’re not married yourself.’
‘No.’
‘No, well, it doesn’t suit everyone. Oh dear, I’m getting off the point again.’ She paused and swallowed half the scotch in her glass. ‘Look. About your niece. She really is going to get hurt, you know. We’ve got to do something.’
I said, ‘You mentioned a letter.’
‘Yes, I thought the last one was a lot more steamed up than the others. I probably should have rung you sooner but the kids have had sore throats and it slipped my mind.’
It was my turn to stare at her. ‘Do you always read your husband’s letters?’
‘Not the boring ones on the mantelpiece, no. Only the ones he tucks away in his pockets. He knows I go through his pockets, that’s why he leaves his love letters there.’
‘You mean he wants you to read them?’
‘I imagine he must do. That way we both know what’s going on without the effort of talking about it. Much easier.’
‘I thought you said you liked talking.’
‘Oh, only to strangers, not to David. Not after ten years. I mean – we’ve said it all. What is there left to say? I think most of the pleasure in conversation comes from the novelty, don’t you? Now you’re a novelty. It’s usually husbands and fathers I have to go and see. I haven’t had an uncle before.’
I refilled both our glasses without asking, since it was obviously going to be necessary.
‘You make a habit of this?’
‘Well, David does, so why shouldn’t I? Look, I don’t think you realise how serious it is. Your niece is all set to fall in love with my husband.’
We were agreed on that at least. Joy sang in my heart.
‘She told me it was just a casual affair,’ I said innocently.
‘Oh, he always starts them off like that. If they’re married they feel safe and if they’re not married, it’s a challenge. Then after a few weeks he turns on the heat and suddenly it’s a great love.’
I considered this with interest. ‘D’you mean he falls in love too?’
She shrugged and poured more of my scotch down her throat. I wondered if I should put the decanter near her so she could help herself and save me all the bother of getting up and down so often. But it seemed a discourteous idea.
‘God knows,’ she said. ‘I can’t tell what goes on in his head. Sometimes he pretends he doesn’t love them when he does and sometimes he tells them he does love them when he doesn’t – I don’t know, I can’t keep track of it. He’s always acting and turning all his feelings inside out. It’s that mirror thing again. That’s how I think of him really. Permanently in front of a mirror. Admiring himself and reversing everything. It’s all opposites. Left for right. And it feeds his ego. Maybe if he was working all the time he wouldn’t do it so much.’
There was a pause. Predictably, she finished her drink.
‘You must love him very much,’ I ventured, ‘to go to all this trouble.’
‘Love?’ she said reflectively. ‘What’s that? I like a quiet life. Every time he has one of these affairs some wretched woman goes berserk and I don’t get a moment’s peace for months. They ring up at all hours, they take overdoses, they come and weep all over me begging me to divorce him and their men get cross and beat him up and then he can’t work.’
A memory stirred. ‘Really? Who did that?’
‘Oh, didn’t he tell you? That woman in Golders Green, her husband caught him in bed with her and gave him the hiding of his life.’ She frowned. ‘I rang you. It was you he couldn’t work for that day. Don’t you remember?’
‘Mrs Salmon,’ I said.
‘That’s the one. Nice woman but she went off her head. Must have been the menopause, poor thing. And her husband was such a big man.’
‘I thought she was a widow.’
Catherine Meredith smiled. ‘Oh, is that what he told you?’
‘But why? Such a pointless lie …’
‘Well, he has to keep in practice. Like saying he’s twenty-eight when he’s thirty-two. Besides, it probably sounded more flattering – rich widow desperate for sex. Better than married woman having a bit on the side.’
‘Like Gemma.’
‘Exactly. You see how I get off the point. Now he’ll have to turn that into something dramatic, he’s bound to, he really needs it, and she sounds like a pushover – can’t you do something to stop it before she gets hurt?’
I poured us both drinks. My head was beginning to swim, but Catherine Meredith, as promised, seemed perfectly sober.
‘But what if she wants to go on with it?’ I said. ‘Who am I to interfere?’
She sighed. ‘The one before Mrs Salmon jumped out of a window and broke her leg,’ she said. ‘Do you really want your niece to do that?’
I said gravely, ‘I think I can promise you she won’t do that.’
‘Well, she’ll do something. They all do. David only picks women like that. I don’t know how he can tell but he can. One of them crashed her car into our garden and set it on fire. A woman who just shrugged her shoulders and said better luck next time, now she wouldn’t be any use to him. Where’s the satisfaction in that?’
‘You talk as if all the affairs have to end badly.’
She looked at me as though I were stupid. ‘Well, of course they have to end badly. Otherwise all these silly women wouldn’t feel desperate, would they?’
I said craftily, ‘But what if one of them rejected him?’
She shook her head. ‘Oh no. That never happens. He can see it coming a mile off – he’s got a sort of radar. No, he always gets in first.’
I rose unsteadily to my feet. My watch had stopped, but an enormous amount of time seemed to have passed and I was ravenously hungry, my stomach awash with nearly neat gin.
I said, ‘Catherine, can I offer you some lunch?’
She looked startled. ‘Oh no, I never eat during the day. But you go ahead.’
Considering the amount of whisky she had consumed, I marvelled that she even got through the day.
‘I thought I might make myself an omelette,’ I said feebly.
To my surprise she suddenly stood up. ‘I expect you’d like me to go now,’ she said. She seemed to specialise in the unanswerable.
‘You must do exactly as you wish.’ I thought longingly of eggs and butter.
‘But you won’t do anything to save her.’ She began moving about the room in small circles that were obscurely threatening, as if she might spring on me at a moment’s notice.
‘What do you suggest?’
‘Well, you could try giving David the sack. Then they wouldn’t have anywhere to meet. That would be a great help.’
‘That would make my niece unhappy. Besides, you said yourself how efficient your husband is. I don’t want to lose him. And you can’t want him to be out of work.’
‘That agency would find you another cleaner. And they’d find him another job. It would really make everything much simpler.’
I said, ‘They’d only meet somewhere else.’
She eyed me strangely. ‘I’m not so sure. David’s very lazy – he hates making arrangements and asking favours of people – and he’s much too mean to take her to a hotel. He usually sees them in their own homes when their husbands are out but he can’t in this case, can he? So it all comes back to you.’
A chill of fear, temporarily held at bay by the gin, began to creep back.
‘There’s something odd about you,’ she went on, quite casually. ‘There’s something odd about this flat. I get the feeling we’ve been at cross purposes the whole time. We’re not talking about the same thing at all.’
Through the haze of protective alcohol, some paradoxical maxim about the interchangeable nature of attack and defence floated luckily into my mind.
‘You mean in reality you’re a jealous wife wanting revenge and you’re only pretending you want to save my niece.’
She laughed quite heartily. She really was the most annoying woman. I could see I would have to make an ally out of her somehow, so as not to lose out utterly. The laughter was incongruous, seeming too strongly coloured with emotion to belong to such a neutral person.
‘Oh really,’ she said, ‘you can do better than that. You’re up to something, aren’t you? I thought so all along, the funny way David talked about you. Is it something to do with writing, is that it? Are you collecting material or something?’
‘Far from it.’
‘If I hadn’t read her letters I’d think you were all having a jolly little threesome. But that’s not it. She’s not that kind of girl, is she? I mean, those letters – they’re so innocent. Positively childish.’
I said, ‘I really will have to see about that omelette now.’ She smiled. ‘All right, I’m going.’ I began to follow her to the door. Suddenly she turned round to face me, so suddenly that I nearly fell over her. ‘You don’t fancy him, do you?’
To my horror I heard myself saying, ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You know. He’s had several offers. You might be gay for all I know – I can’t always tell. In fact I’ve often wondered if David is and doesn’t want to admit it. Might account for him chasing so many women. At least, that’s what it says in books.’
I managed to say, ‘My dear lady, what an extraordinary idea.’
She shrugged and turned away. ‘Oh well, I’ll find out eventually. I always do.’
I accompanied her to the door, furious to find myself the victim of such a banal response as my heart knocking against my rib-cage loudly enough, it seemed, for her to hear it. She paused on the doorstep and held out her hand. I was obliged to take it; it was icy cold. I tried not to tremble at her touch.
‘Thanks for the scotch,’ she said cheerfully. ‘It was very good scotch.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It was.’
She smiled. ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘has he told you his life story yet?’
I shook my head.
‘Try not to let him. It takes hours and he comes out a cross between Winston Churchill and Oliver Twist.’
The feast day came and Gemma arrived early. I was reminded of the far-off days of Christopher the eager puppy, when she had felt confident enough to be late. I put the finishing touches to the table. Gemma hovered. We were both nervously excited.
‘It looks beautiful,’ she said.
‘I hope so.’
We both stared at it as if to make sure it did not change before our eyes.
‘It’s fantastic,’ she said. She kept darting off to brush her hair in front of the mirror and apply more scent. She smelled so delicious it was all I could do not to pounce on her.
‘I’ve got him a silk dressing-gown,’ she said. ‘I do hope he’ll like it.’
‘He’ll love it,’ I said, indignant at any other possibility. ‘How could he fail to love it?’
She looked at me with the same big frightened eyes as in the old days when I had read her X-certificate fairy tales. ‘It’s Christmas. Our first Christmas. I couldn’t bear it to be a failure.’
‘In my spare room,’ I said, ‘how could it be?’
She froze; then exploded with joy. ‘You darling. Have you really?’ She hugged me and I felt for a moment the wildness of her that he knew and I did not; her scent made me dizzy. ‘May I look?’
‘I’ll be most offended if you don’t. I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble.’
She ran off like a child to find a toy. I followed her slowly, followed the cries of delight that were coming from my spare room, no longer spare but filled with a sense of purpose she had once hoped to get from growing her hair.
‘Oh, it’s marvellous. You’ve done wonders. It’s all new.’
I stood in the doorway looking suitably modest. ‘I’ve added a few things here and there.’
‘You’re an angel.’
She looked about to burst into tears. I reflected how beautiful she was. I had not been wrong when I looked at that child of four: she had been worth waiting for. No wonder we all wanted to possess her.
I said, ‘I think I’ll go now. Before he comes.’
She seized me by the arm. ‘Oh no. Stay and have a drink with us.’
‘I’d really rather not. I’ve been told I drink too much – and anyway, all this emotion, at my age it’s bad for the heart.’
She studied me while I got into my coat, my winter favourite, mutton got up as Persian lamb.
‘You put on such a cynical act,’ she said tenderly, ‘to hide how kind you are.’
‘Just remember to take the roast out at one o’clock.’
I went to see Gone With the Wind for the fourth time and sat there, an exile from home, analysing my reactions to Catherine Meredith, while Scarlett pursued Ashley, Rhett pursued Scarlett, and Melanie smiled at everyone. It was comforting to have a familiar background against which to do my thinking. When you have seen a film four times in thirty years, it becomes like reading a diary: yourself when young springs out of every frame.
I wanted to find out more about David and Catherine, but if I did it would be superfluous information: I could not incorporate it into my design. Criseyde had been a widow; well, that was all right. It was both easy and pleasant to imagine Christopher dead. But it was not fitting that Troilus should have a wife. She gave him a less romantic, more homespun image; she might upset all my plans; she represented events beyond my control. And she had brought a most unwelcome blast of cold air into my carefully nurtured hot-house atmosphere, with her careless talk of broken legs and burning cars. A note of ridicule indeed. My tender plants might not survive the icy breath of laughter. How dare she mock all I had struggled so long and so hard to create with true high seriousness: my own private living work of art.
As usual I wept when Scarlett vowed never to be hungry again, and the lights for the intermission came up and caught me wiping my eyes and my glasses. The last time I had seen the film I had been in America, surrounded by teenagers who had come to mock and remained to cry. This generation seemed more robust, queuing dry-eyed for icecream and soft drinks. Well, it was their loss. Myself, I could have done with a hard drink, but it was not that kind of cinema.
I was not even bothering to imagine the erotic antics in my spare room; yet today was the peak of my achievement so far. I wanted to see Catherine Meredith again, and not just to keep her under surveillance. She fascinated me: the drinking, the talking, the new angle on David. His lies – or were they hers? The truth about Mrs Salmon? They could not both be telling the truth, so one (or both) of them must be lying. How far could I pursue my double mirror image, I wondered, for here might be a unique opportunity to observe not only one but two couples in action. I felt slightly disloyal because although I loved David and Gemma in my own fashion, I found Catherine more interesting. She was intelligent; I was afraid of her. I thought David was probably afraid of her too. And yet I felt that if we could join forces, she and I, we would be invincible.
And if not? I borrowed Scarlett’s philosophy: I would not think of that now. I would think of it tomorrow.
When I got home I was amazed and rewarded for my fortitude: David was still there. Still in fact wearing the new silk dressing-gown, which turned out to be a rather strange colour that looked expensive rather than attractive and was probably called aubergine. He was sitting on the dishevelled bed of the spare room with a dazed expression on his face. I asked if he should not be at home by now, but he said he had told Cathy he was having drinks with a casting director.
‘Happy Christmas,’ I said. To tell the truth, though pleased to see him, I was almost embarrassed at my nearness to their love-making. Gemma’s scent was everywhere in the room. Alone, I could have enjoyed it properly; with David there I was wrong-footed.
‘The food was terrific,’ he said. ‘You did us proud.’
His last words echoed because Catherine had used them. It must be a family expression; I had noticed before how married people often talked alike. To get away from the tantalising smell of sex, I wandered into the dining-room.
He called after me, ‘It’s all right, I’ve cleared up in there,’ and so he had, as if the feast had never been. I went back to the spare room and found him getting dressed: his body was covered with dark curly hair and he was circumcised. Suddenly I felt ill with envy; but which of them I envied most I could not have told you. An extraordinary feeling, so intense as to leave me physically weak: I had to hold on to the door for a moment. But it passed, as all feelings pass.
‘Look what she gave me,’ he said, hanging the dressing-gown on the back of the door. ‘It must have cost the earth.’
‘She’s very generous,’ I said. He was like a child, enchanted by a present. Or did he think mere expense made him more worthy?
‘She stayed till four,’ he said. There was something odd about his voice: a stunned quality. As if he was telling me that she was generous with time as well as money and he was surprised.
I said, ‘D’you want a drink?’ It was after six and I needed one badly.
He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so. We had rather a lot – she brought champagne and so did I.’
He was dressed by now. He surveyed the room. ‘I just didn’t want to clear this up too soon.’
‘Shall I help you?’ I moved forward slightly. My sick feeling had passed; already I was able to enjoy seeing the lipstick marks on the pillow, the semen stains on the sheets.
‘No, don’t help me, I’d rather do it.’ He began to do it in a reluctant desultory style, not at all the way he dealt with the rest of the flat. He said, ‘You’re going there at Christmas, aren’t you? To her home?’
‘Yes, I always do.’
‘Then give her this and pretend it’s from you. I mean she’ll know it’s from me but let the others think it’s from you. Then she can wear it all the time.’ He put a small, badly-wrapped package into my hand.
‘I shall have to wrap it better than that,’ I said, ‘or no one will believe it’s from me.’
‘Do what the hell you like with it, only give it to her. She won’t be expecting it, she thinks we’ve both had our presents today, but I want her to have something extra on the day.’ He reached for his jacket, then as if changing his mind sat down suddenly on the bed. ‘I think I love her. My God, what have you done?’