The Essence of the Thing
MADELEINE ST JOHN

Dedication

For Judith McCue

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

60

61

62

63

64

65

66

67

68

69

About the Author

Other Works

Copyright

About the Publisher

1

Nicola was still standing in the doorway when Jonathan began to speak: she hadn’t had time even to take off her coat. It was a cold spring evening: one still needed a coat out of doors after dark.

She was standing there in the sitting-room doorway, her hands in her pockets, holding on to the packet of cigarettes she had gone out to buy, and the loose change, and the keys; she hadn’t had time even to put these things on the table, and take off her coat, and sit down, because Jonathan had called out to her as soon as she’d shut the front door behind her. ‘Nicola?’ But in a tone of voice which seemed odd to her: too sharp, too urgent: and she’d stood, perplexed, in the doorway, her fingers having suddenly tightened around the cigarettes, the keys, the loose coins: ‘What is it?’ she said. Is something wrong?

Jonathan was sitting at the far end of the sofa; he turned his head just enough to enable his eye to catch hers. He gazed at her for a moment and then he spoke again. ‘Come in here,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to you.’

What was he saying? Nicola was paralysed by dread – a dread which in weaker doses had become almost familiar to her during the past few months: now, with this preposterous invitation, Come in here (for where else might she have gone?), this ominous announcement, I want to talk to you, she saw that something wholly dreadful had at last begun. She saw this, but part of her mind failed truly to grasp it. So she stood, dumbfounded, in the doorway. ‘What is it?’ she asked again. ‘What’s wrong?’

Wrong is one of those words which sound like what they signify, not by virtue of onomatopoeia, but by virtue of a more subtle correspondence: the same being true, to a lesser degree only, of right. There is right and there is wrong: the knowledge that there is right and wrong is part of one’s English-speaking birthright: these attributes could not imaginably achieve the same terrible finality in another formulation. This is right, said the Anglo-Saxon warrior, and that is wrong. And to be in the wrong is to be cast into a waste of ice and darkness which is the ultima Thule of devastation. One might nevermore return. ‘Is anything wrong?’ She could see as she uttered the word that something was, indeed, wrong. The ice and darkness filled the room.

Jonathan shrugged very slightly and then got impatiently to his feet. He leaned an arm against the mantelpiece; if there had been a fire he would certainly have poked it. As it was, he looked unseeingly at the objects at his elbow and moved a china poodle dog. Then he looked up at her again. ‘There’s no nice way to say this,’ he said. ‘But I’ve decided – that is, I’ve come to the conclusion – that we should part.’ The ice and darkness were now inside her: all her entrails froze.

‘I think I’ll sit down,’ she said. Her entrails had frozen, but her ankles had turned to water. She walked unsteadily over to the sofa and sat down, huddling her coat closer around her. Her hands were still in the pockets, still holding on to the cigarettes, and the loose change, and the keys. She dared not look at him, and yet she knew she must. She saw that Jonathan’s face was a perfectly composed mask of calm assurance.

There was still a part of Nicola’s mind which did not believe that this conversation was really taking place, and so it was possible to enter further into it. It was a sort of joke, it was the sort of joke which might be perpetrated in a dream: in the alternative reality where there was no right, no wrong. There’s nothing wrong, she found herself thinking: this is just a sort of joke which I haven’t yet understood. ‘I don’t think I understand,’ she said. ‘Could you just say all that again?’

2

Jonathan had been looking downwards, as if in search of the atavistic poker, the atavistic fire; he now looked up once more. ‘I want you to move out,’ he said. ‘Sorry – there really isn’t a nice way to say this, as I said before. Sorry. It just isn’t working. I mean, you must know that as well as I do.’

‘Move out,’ Nicola repeated dazedly. There was this dreadful lurching feeling in her stomach and she had begun to tremble. Her fingers closed more tightly around the keys, the money, the cigarettes. This was a very nasty kind of joke; it did not seem possible that it could ever become funny.

‘Yes,’ said Jonathan. ‘Well – that is – I’ve thought about this, obviously—’ He was suddenly on much firmer ground: he was down to brass tacks, now. Brass tacks were his stock-in-trade, he being after all a lawyer. ‘I mean, yes, I could move out, of course, and you could stay here, if you wanted to, but I just assumed you wouldn’t want to take it on. I mean, I’m offering, obviously, to buy you out.’

Her state of shock was only intensified by each succeeding sentence. He was offering – obviously! – to buy her out. She had said nothing, and so he went on. He was looking carefully at the china poodle dog. ‘I’m assuming, of course, that you wouldn’t want to buy me out.’

Couldn’t. He means, couldn’t. How very tactful. Of course she couldn’t. Nicola worked in the publications department of a famous, but medium-sized, arts organisation. She found that she was not trembling quite so much now, and might dare to speak.

‘No,’ she said, quite evenly. ‘I wouldn’t.’ There was a very brief pause: you could hear the silence. ‘In fact,’ she went on, ‘I wouldn’t want you to buy me out either. In fact, Jonathan, I don’t believe I know what you’re talking about. I don’t believe this conversation is really happening.’ She got up. ‘Look, I’m going to hang up my coat,’ she said. ‘And I’m going to make some tea, okay? And then you can tell me all about it. Because just at this precise moment I don’t understand what the fuck you’re on about. Excuse me.’ And she left the room.

3

And although she was still in a state of extreme shock, and still trembling, she was beginning now to see – to realise – to understand – that the thing which was truly wrong was not so much the dreadful scene into which she had just been precipitated, as the misapprehension (whatever it might be) which had given rise to it: she was beginning now to understand – and she became more certain by the minute – that Jonathan’s ‘conclusion’, however rational in itself, could have derived only from a hugely wrong, a wholly false, initial assumption, and that all that was now necessary was the careful discovery of this assumption and the calm revelation of its falseness. Now that she knew what she must do there was nothing truly to worry about, nothing truly to fear. She had stopped trembling; she went and made the tea, and took it into the sitting room.

They were both silent while she poured it out; she handed Jonathan – still standing at the mantelpiece – a cup and then she began to take the cellophane off the cigarette packet.

‘I’ve asked Winkworth’s to send someone round on Monday morning to do a valuation,’ Jonathan said. ‘I thought that was the fairest way. Property prices haven’t moved much since we bought this place, but I thought if we got a valuation now, I’d be prepared to give you your share of the current value or your original stake, whichever is the greater. If you see what I mean. Can’t say fairer than that; I hope you agree.’

Nicola lit a cigarette. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t possibly be fairer.’ She inhaled. ‘There is a problem, though,’ she went on. ‘Oh, I suppose you’re thinking about the f and f,’ said Jonathan. ‘I’m sure we can sort that out easily enough.’ ‘No, that’s not it,’ said Nicola.

‘What then?’

‘Jonathan, do sit down.’ He looked reluctant, but did so. She took another drag. Even though she had seen what she must do, it wasn’t easy to begin. ‘The problem,’ she said, ‘the problem is, that I don’t actually understand what all this is about. I mean, something has evidently gone wrong, badly wrong: and I don’t have a clue what it is.’

Jonathan looked surprised, and even slightly pained. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing’s gone wrong. Nothing in particular, that is. No, truly. It’s just the whole thing. It’s us. We’re wrong. I mean, as a couple. I thought you’d realised that as well as I had. You know how it’s been. Well. Need I go into it?’

If this was the initial assumption, the revelation of the falseness of which would lead to the collapse of Jonathan’s entire argument, then hard as it had been to begin, it would be harder still to continue: his speech had thrown her into a state of even deeper shock and pain. She began to tremble again.

‘I evidently don’t know how it’s been,’ she said shakily. ‘Of course we’ve had out sticky moments, every couple does, but – but – I thought we were happy’. And with these words she began, at last, to cry. Her tears began to fall quite heavily; she could not speak further, and began even to sob. Jonathan, sitting at the other end of the sofa, took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her silently – a large square of rumpled, but clean, linen. She buried her face in it and wept uncontrollably for some minutes. The world she had inhabited having been smashed to pieces (whose jagged edges cut her wherever she turned), it was the only natural thing to do.

4

Jonathan waited, staring into the fire which was not there, until Nicola’s tears subsided; at last she blew her nose, and looked up. She could almost have wished her tears to continue, for the icy darkness of this dreadful new consciousness. Whatever was wrong was deeper and more secret an affair than she could have guessed. It lay in the very heart of their lives, it lay in them, it lay, for all one knew, in their actual souls: if souls they possessed.

‘I don’t understand you,’ she said once more. ‘I don’t understand anything you’ve said.’ And she could not have spoken, could never have spoken, so truly. Her whole mind was black with incomprehension. Jonathan had stood up again; he leaned once more against the mantelpiece. ‘I think that rather proves my point, doesn’t it?’ he said.

Even now she could not quite believe that he could say such a thing to her, at such a moment. She was silenced, but at the same time she found that tears had once more filled her eyes. She picked up the handkerchief and wiped them away, but more came; she was on the point of sobbing again. ‘It’s just the shock,’ she found herself thinking; ‘it’s simply the shock.’

Jonathan made a shrug of impatience. ‘Please don’t cry any more,’ he said. ‘It really isn’t helpful.’ He poured some more tea into her cup. ‘Here, drink this,’ he said. ‘You’ll feel better.’

She left the tea where it was. ‘I’m sorry you’ve taken this so – hard,’ he said. She knew, instantly, that he had been on the point of saying ‘badly’, and had stopped himself just in time. ‘I really didn’t expect it. That you should have thought we were happy was the last thing I expected. But there you are. We don’t understand each other, as you said. We’ll be much better off by ourselves’. And he said this almost with satisfaction. It was clear that he thoroughly believed it.

It was only now that the likeliest, the most banal, explanation occurred to Nicola’s dazed and grief-stricken mind.

‘Is there someone else?’ she said. She looked at his face carefully, steadily. His surprise was unmistakable; he even looked rather affronted by the suggestion. ‘No, of course not,’ he said. ‘I would have told you if there had been.’

There was a pause. ‘No,’ he continued. ‘No one else. Just us.’ ‘Us,’ she repeated. ‘And now, it seems, there’s no us.’ He said nothing: an infinite boredom seemed to have possessed him: she recognised that expression, she remembered this sensation: he had hardened his heart, and closed his mind, against her. He would answer no questions, he would be cold to every appeal; she was altogether, for the present time at least, shunned. She recognised that expression, she remembered this sensation of death-in-life, and she was filled with a desolation which made her tears of a few minutes ago seem luxurious. ‘Jonathan,’ she said; ‘don’t do this.’

He ignored her. She might not have spoken. He picked up the tea-tray. ‘I’ll sleep in the spare room,’ he said. ‘Are there sheets in there?’ She looked away from him with a kind of disgust, and ignoring this too he went on. ‘And by the way, I’ll be away at the weekend – parents.’ Just so. And tomorrow was Friday. ‘I’ll go straight down after work. Okay?’ She shrugged slightly, still speechless, and got up. ‘Well, good night,’ he said blandly. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’ She stared at him dumbly, and left the room. Having been cast out by him, she now found – as she had found before – that she was capable only of speaking and acting, even to a degree apparently of feeling, like a stranger. But struggling, terrified and helpless, a loving and trusting Nicola shrieked in anguish from the depths of this stunned and frozen stranger.

5

‘Are you doing anything tonight?’

‘Not particularly’

‘Can I come round after work?’

‘Just you?’

‘Yes. Just me.’

‘Is anything wrong?’

‘Ish.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’

‘I’m afraid Geoff’ll be here. It’s one of his days off.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Look, I’ll bring something to drink. Is there anything else you’d like?’

‘No, something to drink will do nicely’

‘I’ll see you later then, around six-thirty, okay?’

‘Yes, see you then. Take care.’

‘You too.’

Susannah hung up.

‘Who was that?’

‘Nicola.’

‘What does she want?’

‘Me.’

‘Why?’

‘A friend in need.’

‘Oh? Something wrong?’

‘She says ish. I dare say we’ll find out tonight.’

‘Oh, God. She’s not going to go on and on, is she? I might go out and leave you girls to it.’

‘As you like. We can manage without you.’

‘Is she coming here for supper?’

‘Well, naturally. She’s coming straight from work. She’s bringing something to drink.’

‘Tell you what. I’ll stay until we’ve eaten and then I’ll bugger off down the pub.’

‘It’s karaoke night.’

‘All the better.’

‘I thought you liked Nicola.’

‘She’s a sweetheart.’

‘So?’

‘I just don’t like women going on and on.’

‘Exactly what do you mean by that?’

‘You know. On and on. Complaining. Usually about a man.’

‘If only there were never any occasion to.’

‘Come, now. You don’t hear us men going on and on.’

‘You have no occasion to.’

‘Can it really be as simple as that?’

‘Possibly not. Well, that’s interesting, isn’t it. The thing that’s wrong with women is that they go on and on, and the thing that’s wrong with men is that they don’t.’

‘Do you think I should do my Joe Cocker number tonight, or that Bryan Ferry one?’

‘Honestly, Geoff. This is no time for joking. Nicola might be in real trouble.’

‘Not her. That chic little Nothing Hill set-up with the deluxe plumbing and the stuffed shirt laying down the old claret. No way. She probably just wants some help with her vol-au-vents.’

‘Geoffrey: you are an idiot. I think you’d really better make yourself scarce tonight after all. Do the Joe Cocker. Now bugger off and let me get some work done.’

Susannah worked from home, and Geoffrey was a lecturer at a former polytechnic, so between them they just managed to service the mortgage on a house in Clapham which they had bought before the neighbourhood became quasi-fashionable. They had one clever child; they could not afford another. Later on that day Susannah gave Geoffrey a shopping list and he went to Sainsbury’s and got everything in, plus some caramels.

‘What’s this?’ said Susannah, unpacking.

‘Caramels.’

‘What for?’

‘For you.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, why not?’

‘Why?’

‘A token of my esteem.’

‘Oh, I wish.’

‘And my love, admiration, gratitude, etcetera.’

‘Oh, yeah. Want one?’

‘Well, since you ask. Just one.’

The clever child, a boy of nine, at this moment came home from school. ‘Cor!’ he said. ‘You’re eating sweets! Cor!’

‘Well, we’ve been good today,’ said his father.

‘So what else is new?’ said the child, whose name was Guy.

‘Give me a kiss,’ said his mother. ‘Alright,’ said Guy, and obliged. ‘Want one?’ she asked, offering the caramels. He took one. ‘Do you want to see my poem?’ he asked them. He was invited to read it to them, and did so. ‘Cor!’ said Susannah. ‘That’s really whizzy. Well done!’ ‘I wish I could write like that,’ said Geoffrey. He meant it, too: any adult might have wished as much. But there you were.

6

They were all sitting around the kitchen table eating spaghetti and drinking the wine Nicola had brought, except for Guy, who was drinking chocolate-flavoured milk. When they were all done, Guy obtained permission to go and watch television and the adults sat back and sighed at each other.

‘So how’s Jonathan?’ said Susannah.

Nicola was smoking a cigarette. She fiddled with her lighter. ‘I’m not exactly sure,’ she said. ‘Are there grounds for concern?’ asked Susannah, who had from the inception of this relationship believed that there just possibly could be.

‘Well. You see …’

‘Go on.’

‘I went out last night to buy some cigarettes.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘We’d been sitting around watching telly; it was a perfectly average evening.’

‘Yes, I know the sort of thing you mean, we have those too.’

‘And so, anyway, I went out to that offy and got the fags and came straight back, and when I got in, Jonathan called out to me and said, Come in here, I want to talk to you. So I did, I mean I hadn’t even had a chance to take off my coat, and he told me, he said—’

She broke off.

‘Yes?’

‘He said, I want you to move out.’

‘He what?’ cried Susannah.

‘Just like that?’ asked Geoffrey.

‘Yes, just like that.’

Her interlocutors sat there, stunned and appalled.

‘I mean,’ said Susannah, ‘had you no suspicion beforehand—’

‘No, none. I mean, absolutely none.’

‘He must be round the twist.’

‘He seemed perfectly rational.’

‘That’s when they’re at their worst.’

‘Ho hum,’ said Geoffrey.

‘You shut up, you,’ said Susannah.

He ignored this. ‘What happened then?’ he asked.

‘Well—’ said Nicola; and at some length she managed to relate the rest of the conversation and to describe the sensations which it had induced in her.

Her friends were still appalled but they were no longer stunned.

‘He’s a complete and utter rat,’ said Susannah. ‘It’s a merciful release.’

‘Do you really think so?’ said Nicola unhappily. The relating of the tale had left her shaken.

‘Absolutely,’ said Susannah. ‘He’s a rat.’

‘Well, perhaps not exactly a rat,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But certainly a prat. A prat, definitely. But that was always obvious. I mean, just look at the guy. You’re better off without him, much.’

‘But I love him,’ said Nicola, and burst into tears. Susannah slid her chair around until it was beside Nicola’s, and put her arm around her friend’s shaking shoulders. ‘There, have a good cry, darling,’ she said. ‘Susannah’s here.’ She continued to hold her as close as she could, patting her back from time to time, and meanwhile she turned her head and shot a withering look at her husband. ‘Piss off,’ she mouthed at him, and after raising his eyebrows he muttered an excuse and got up and left the room.

‘There,’ said Susannah, ‘there, there. Have a good cry. Stupid men. There, there.’

7

Nicola at last dried her tears, and sat silent and desolate while Susannah made some tea. She looked down at her teacup. ‘Jonathan may be a rat,’ she said. ‘That is, he is acting like a rat, at the moment. And he might go on being a rat now for good. But he isn’t a prat. Truly he isn’t. I know you think so, but really he isn’t.’

‘That was Geoff’s word, not mine,’ said Susannah.

‘But I suppose you agree,’ said Nicola.

‘Well, every rat is ipso facto a prat,’ Susannah pointed out.

Nicola had on reflection to concur. ‘Alright then,’ she said. ‘Let’s say he’s a prat. But he’s the prat I love.’ She paused. ‘Actually, I’ve never been absolutely sure what prat means, exactly.’

‘I’ve never been absolutely sure what love means, exactly.’

‘It means, that even when someone acts like a rat, and/or a prat, you still want to stay with them.’

‘Some people would call that masochism.’

‘Oh.’

The abyss opened up before her. Who knew what anything meant, exactly? How far into that darkness would one have to fall, or painstakingly climb, before one discovered meaning and truth – even assuming that they were, ultimately, there to be found? She scrambled as far away from the edge as she presently could.

‘The trouble is,’ she said, ‘that one goes on fancying a person. No matter how badly they might behave.’

‘Yes, that is the trouble, alright,’ said Susannah. ‘That’s all the trouble.’

‘It must be a sort of trick,’ said Nicola, wondering. ‘To make sure that we go on reproducing, no matter what. Not that sex these days has anything to do with reproduction; but still.’

‘We’re hooked up to the old mechanism, nevertheless. It’s a mean old trick alright.’

They were both silent for a while. Susannah at last very tentatively spoke. ‘Did this thing last night,’ she said, ‘really come out of the blue? Had you really no idea that it might be in his mind?’

Nicola didn’t answer immediately She was trying to collect her memories and her thoughts. ‘There have been a few rat-like moments,’ she said. ‘But nothing like this. Nothing suggesting this.’ She paused again, and sat, thinking. ‘Perhaps I’ve been simply obtuse,’ she said slowly.

‘I always think it’s better to be obtuse than paranoid,’ said Susannah.

Nicola smiled wanly. ‘At least the paranoid are always prepared,’ she said. ‘For the worst, I mean.’

‘Were you prepared for the best?’ asked her friend. There, at last, clearly, it was. ‘Yes,’ said Nicola. ‘I thought it was only a matter of time, I mean, not very much time, before we’d decide to marry.’

‘Marriage being “the best”, eh?’

‘It must be, mustn’t it?’

‘Until we think of something even better.’

‘What could that be?’

‘Ah, if we only knew.’

Guy entered the room. ‘Tell us,’ said Susannah, ‘what could be better than marriage, Guy?’ ‘Salvation,’ he replied. His elders howled. ‘Where do you learn these words?’ asked Susannah. ‘I learned that in RE,’ said Guy. ‘I’m not sure exactly what it means, but it’s meant to be very good, so it might be better than marriage.’

‘Can’t you have both?’

‘Well, I suppose so, but salvation is still probably the better of the two.’

‘The better of the two,’ repeated Susannah. ‘Very good, Guy. Very good.’ ‘OK,’ he said. He now remembered what he had come in for. ‘Can I have another caramel?’

8

‘What’s your dad doing?’

‘Watching telly.’

‘Take him a caramel then.’

The child departed and the two women sat looking at each other for a moment. ‘Lucky you,’ Nicola sighed. ‘Your turn will come,’ said Susannah.

‘Do you really think so?’

‘Yes, of course I do. As soon as you get shot of that rat.’

Nicola’s face was a portrait of misery. She did not want to get shot of Jonathan; her present situation was so intolerable that it could not truly be pondered, or even admitted: even here, now, with Susannah, she could look only at its edges, not at the excruciating whole.

‘Jonathan isn’t a rat really,’ she said, almost wildly. ‘He isn’t – it’s just – something’s gone wrong somewhere. I mean, it’s probably my fault. I just haven’t had a chance to talk to him properly. I don’t know what’s in his mind. It must be my fault: I must have done something wrong.’

‘He should have told you what it was, then, when you did it, not waited, and then – this.’

‘Yes, well, it’s difficult for him – he’s – you know – perhaps he was too shocked, or confused – I don’t know.’

She broke off, near to tears again. ‘Listen, darling,’ said Susannah, ‘he may or may not be a fully paid-up rat but he’s landed you in it good and proper, causing grief to you and consternation to your friends. As far as I’m concerned, if he doesn’t shape up and talk this through to your mutual satisfaction as soon as he gets back from his cowardly weekend away, then the thing for you to do is to eff off out of the place immédiatement and leave him to it. Just pack a bag and go. I don’t know what your alternatives may be but you know you’re entirely welcome to come and crash here until you get sorted. But I mean, no pissing about. Either he shapes up and explains himself and makes a most profound apology and a guarantee of no further similar scenes – that is, if you really do want as you say to stay with him – or you get the fuck out of his rat-like way. You can sleep in my workroom. I’ll even clear some space for your things. I can’t say fairer than that.’

‘You’re an angel,’ said Nicola miserably. ‘But I can only hope that I won’t need to take advantage of your generosity.’

‘Never mind that: just promise me that you won’t hang about. I mean it. I know rats. If there’s one thing they love to do, it’s prolong the agony. Do you promise? You’ll telephone me on Monday evening, alright, at the latest Tuesday, either to assure me that the situation’s sorted out, or to say that you’re on the way here: is that understood?’

‘You’re an angel.’

‘Yes,’ said Susannah, ‘that’s me, definitely.’

9

Nicola had gone home in a taxi, Guy had gone to bed, Susannah was washing up and Geoffrey was hovering in her vicinity, giving an impression of helpfulness.

‘What’s she going to do, then?’ he said.

‘I don’t know. It’s too soon to decide.’

‘Too soon?’ How long does it take? He’s told her to push off, it doesn’t seem to me that there’s anything to hang about for.’

‘Ah, little do you know.’

‘So tell me.’

‘Well, doesn’t it occur to you that he’s obviously had a rush of blood to the head, or something of the kind? I mean, to suddenly come along and give an order like that, for no evident reason – well, it’s perfectly mad.’

‘Oh – so you think this is just a fit of temporary insanity. Total withdrawal of affection while the balance of his mind was disturbed.’

‘Well, it might be. Something like that, anyway. I mean, it was so awfully sudden, so unforseen—’

‘We have only Nicola’s word for that.’

‘Well, one has to trust her version in the absence of any others.’

‘Alright, for the sake of the argument, it’s totally sudden and unforeseen and therefore possibly irrational. But who wants to go on living with a bloke who can behave like that?’

‘Nicola does.’

‘Then she must be mad too. They’re a dangerous pair.’

‘Then they’re best off staying with each other. Like the Carlyles.’

‘She never struck me as mad before.’

‘As a matter of fact, she isn’t. I wouldn’t have said what I did, but it was just one of those irresistible debating points.’

‘No, I think you must be right. If she wants to stay with him, she must be mad.’

‘No, she is not mad.’

‘What then?’

‘She loves him.’

‘Oh, God, spare me.’

‘What, spare you? Why?’

‘Love. For God’s sake. What does it mean?’

‘You tell me. I seem to remember being presented with a whole bag of caramels, for my very own, this very afternoon, in token of your love for me, among other things.’

‘Well, that’s completely different.’

‘How?’

‘The way I feel about you couldn’t possibly be compared to the way Nicola feels about Jonathan.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘Well, for God’s sake. You’re being disingenuous, aren’t you?’

‘No, truly not. I genuinely want to know what you mean.’

‘Our situation is totally different from theirs. They couldn’t either of them possibly feel as do either of us. Their situation is completely different, and so are they. Nothing is comparable.’

‘That doesn’t mean she can’t love him, in her way, according to her nature and her situation.’

‘Alright, but I can’t take that kind of love seriously’

‘I think that’s very intolerant of you, not to say arrogant, to say nothing of unimaginative.’

‘Yes, that sounds like me.’

‘So what could you possibly know about love?’

‘Do you have to be tolerant, and humble, and imaginative, to know anything about love?’

‘Yes.’

There was a moment’s silence, and then Geoffrey spoke. ‘I think,’ he said slowly, ‘you’ve just made a serious point. How disconcerting.’

‘Well, we were having a serious conversation, weren’t we?’

‘Were we?’

‘For heaven’s sake. We were talking about love. After all.’

‘And nothing is more serious than love.’

‘No, nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.’

There was another brief silence. ‘Actually,’ said Geoffrey reflectively, ‘I suppose nothing is as serious as love.’

‘No, nothing. Nothing whatsoever.’

‘Love, eh?’

‘Yeah. Love.’

‘Listen. Don’t ever tell anyone I said that, will you? About nothing being as serious as love. I’ll never be able to show my face on a squash court again.’

‘When did you ever show your face on a squash court?’

‘Well, you know what I mean. It’s the principle of the thing.’

‘Alright. I mean, when all’s said and done, what would I want with a man who had no squash court credibility?’

‘Exactly.’

10

‘All the same, I still can’t see how a reasonably intelligent and actually attractive lady like Nicola—’

‘Oh, you think she’s intelligent do you?’

‘Yes, and attractive, yes; how she can—’

‘I didn’t realise you thought she was attractive.’

‘Well, isn’t she?’

‘Apparently’

‘Right. So I can’t see how she could love a twit like Jonathan.’

‘He’s rather tasty.’

‘What?’

‘If you like that sort of thing.’

‘You can’t be serious.’

‘Try me.’

‘How?’

‘That’s your problem.’

‘God. Jonathan. Tasty. God.’

‘I think they make quite a good couple, in a way. They look right together.’

‘Look right?’

‘Yes, you know. They look good together.’

Geoffrey, still astounded, did his best to consider this proposition. ‘I suppose they do,’ he said. ‘I suppose they do.’

‘You can generally tell whether people are basically right for each other by whether they look good together, don’t you think?’ said Susannah. ‘The idea never once occurred to me,’ Geoffrey replied. ‘It’s not even occurring to me now. Do we look good together?’

She laughed. ‘What do you think?’ she said. He was still in a state of utter perplexity. She laughed again, and flapped the tea-towel in his face. ‘Well, what do you think?’ she asked. ‘I still don’t see how she can love him,’ he said, ‘however good they may or may not look together. Or however tasty he may or may not be. Not that he is.’

‘He can do the Times crossword.’

‘Oh, God.’

‘Shall we go to bed?’

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather do the Times crossword?’

‘We’ve only got a Guardian.’

‘Won’t that do instead?’

‘For some reason, it doesn’t seem to count the same.’

‘I suppose we’ll just have to go to bed then.’

‘Oh, by the way, I told Nicola she could come and stay here, if this situation doesn’t get sorted out pronto. If she really has to leave.’

‘Well, by the way, I think that was rather unilateral of you.’

‘What else could I do?’

Geoffrey heaved a sign and looked at her. ‘Let’s just assume,’ he said, ‘that the situation will get sorted out. After all, they’re basically right for each other, as you pointed out. This is just a storm in a teacup.’

‘Poor Nicola,’ said Susannah sadly.

‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey, quite seriously. ‘One way or another, poor Nicola.’

‘And even poorer Jonathan,’ said Susannah.

‘Sod Jonathan,’ said Geoffrey. He had had enough. ‘Yes, well,’ said Susannah, ‘let’s go to bed, shall we?’ So they did.

11

After all, Nicola told herself, alone under the covers, the flat silent around her, Jonathan absent in the country: he could not really, not surely, have meant it.

Of course, yes, he meant it: but only because he was mistaken. The thing that was wrong was a mistake, and she would, as soon as ever she could, discover this mistake and put it right: and then everything Jonathan had said, and meant, would be rescinded. As soon as ever she could!

He was bound to return on Sunday night, because the house agent was coming at his invitation on Monday morning: so she would see Jonathan again on Sunday night. Everything will be sorted out quite soon, thought Nicola: in just two days from now, this episode will all have become a bad dream, nothing more. Because otherwise, it is too bad to be true.

She dared now, just, to feel her way towards the contemplation of the scene of the previous night as if it might represent all of the truth, as if it might be an irreducible, however ugly, reality: as if Jonathan had not only meant what he had said, but had known what he meant: as if there were no mistake in the matter but her own – her own blindness to, ignorance of, Jonathan’s true and natural feelings.

And now she allowed, she admitted, she was entirely bound to admit, that Jonathan might have meant what he said, might have known what he meant, and so wanted, not only truly, but justifiably, and with all his heart, to separate from her: yes, this unspeakable horror really was a logical possibility. Such events may truly occur. Love can grow cold, and become indifference – even dislike – even hatred.

She saw therefore that, whatever the truth of the matter, whether he meant or did not truly mean what he had said, Jonathan had become an absolute mystery to her. He was no longer the lover, comrade, companion she had known, but a frighteningly unreckonable creature as of faery. There can’t be an awful lot of solicitors who seem like that, she thought; and she almost smiled. Susannah would have been proud of her.

12

‘Is that all you’re having? Just cereal? Don’t you want some eggs and bacon? Goodness! Perhaps you’d like porridge. No? Well, I suppose you know best.’

‘Of course he does. Of course he knows best. Truly to God, Sophie, you’d think he was five years old. Croissants, that’s what he wants. That’s what they eat for breakfast up in London. Croissants, French croissants. Should’ve got some in. What?’

‘Don’t be silly, Hugo. The very idea. Jonathan doesn’t eat croissants. You don’t eat croissants, do you, Jonathan? No, see, he’s having some toast. Have some of that marmalade, darling, it’s from the last lot I made for the WI stall, a bit runny, but you just have to eat it fast before it drips. Oh, but you used to love marmalade! I remember sending it to you at school. Didn’t I? Well, I gave you some to take back with you. I remember. Marmalade. You used to insist on it.’

‘Lot of rubbish.’

‘What?’

‘Lot of rubbish. Here. Listen to this.’

Hugo Finch, JP, began reading from the Telegraph. ‘Senior back-benchers,’ he began, ‘are reported …’ and so it went on: a further chapter in the gruesome, yet frequently hilarious, saga of the island people who had given the planet its common language and virtually all its games. What exactly were they working on now? None could truly say; many were the vain attempts to do so, but the question was beyond the scope of the merely human intelligence. Hugo concluded his reading.

‘Splendid stuff,’ said Jonathan, at the end of his tether. His father stared. ‘What?’ he said. ‘What did you say?’ He looked apoplectic.

‘Splendid,’ said Jonathan. ‘Splendid!’

‘Did you hear that? Did you hear what he said?’

‘Yes, he’s joking, Hugo. He doesn’t mean it.’

‘I’ll tell you what he can do if he does: he can go straight back to London on the next train.’

‘I’ve got a car.’

‘Then bloody go and get into it and drive away, then! Splendid, he says! Splendid! Wants horsewhipping! Croissants! London! Horsewhipping!’ Hugo flapped the newspaper straight with a loud crack and barricaded himself behind it. ‘Croissants!’ he muttered.

‘Excuse me,’ said Jonathan, getting up. He went out into the garden and walked about slowly, happily. It had taken years for him to learn that when they wind you up, the thing to do is wind them right back. Croissants – French croissants! Glorious! Splendid!

13

The splendour passed; Jonathan was possessed once more by the familiar demon whose dark oppressing wings enfolded his mind. He sat down on a garden seat and leaned back, closing his eyes against the bright spring sunshine, listening to the countryside sounds, trying, failing, to shun thought, recollection, reflection. Why this abiding darkness? Wasn’t the worst over and done? Nicola, for all he now knew, might be gone, out of his sight, when he returned to London the following evening; he might even now be effectively free: free of all the terrible demands of that scrutiny, that intimacy, that sharing of the self. Free, and alone: to be alone was to be free.

Suddenly the weight of a human being fell on to the seat beside him and a voice loudly spoke to him. ‘Ah! here you are!’ It was his mother, whose approach had been silenced by the lawn across which she had advanced. Oh, God. No matter where one was, there was someone, some woman, peering into one’s soul. It was intolerable. He had even (so he fancied) caught his secretary apparently at it. They peered into one’s soul and left one naked and helpless.

He sat up. ‘I was just thinking of going for a walk,’ he said. ‘Oh, but do stay for a moment now I’m here,’ she said. ‘Do tell me how Nicola is getting on. Such a pity she couldn’t come with you, when the weather’s so nice.’ What a pity you are not married: have no children: aren’t happier to be here: but see how tolerant we are, have always been; how tolerant, how patient. All the younger generation seem to be the same, all living together without benefit of clergy. Of course they settle down in the end. Mostly. When would Jonathan’s end arrive, though? It was taking such a very long time. And why no Nicola this weekend, after all? ‘She always enjoys the garden so much, doesn’t she?’ she went on. ‘Yes,’ said Jonathan. ‘I suppose she does.’

‘So she’s quite well, is she?’ Not quite what we would have liked for Jonathan, ideally, but still, quite a nice girl. Quite a nice girl. Highly educated, of course; as they all are these days – funny, isn’t it? ‘Yes,’ said Jonathan. ‘She’s fine.’ ‘Good,’ said his mother. ‘Well, you must make sure you bring her next time.’ ‘Yes,’ said Jonathan. ‘Sure thing.’ Oh ho. You bet. Sorry, Ma.

14

On Saturday (while Jonathan basked, ate, walked, fumed, bashed croquet balls between hoops, and intermittently gloated) Nicola cleaned out all the kitchen cupboards. She cleaned the gas cooker, especially the oven. She even washed down all the paintwork, including the skirting boards, and she did two loads of washing, back to back. Then she washed her hair.

Mrs Brick had been in a few days before so there wasn’t a lot to be done to the rest of the flat, but she did what there was, and a little more besides. On Sunday morning she polished the mirrors and the insides of the window panes and the television screen, and she washed all the china dogs and put them back on the mantelpiece in slightly different positions. After lunching off a tuna sandwich and an orange (Jonathan had overdone roast lamb and apple pie) she settled down to the ironing. She was getting through the time nicely.

She was just beginning on Jonathan’s shirts (ah! Jonathan’s shirts: God wears the exact same kind) when the telephone rang.

‘Nicola? It’s Lizzie.’

‘Oh, Lizzie.’

‘How are you?’

‘I’m well, thanks, Lizzie. Are you?’

‘Yes, I’m well too. Listen, darling, about next weekend.’

Oh God oh God.

‘Ye-e-es?’

‘Oh, dear, had you forgotten? I know we’ve messed you about so much, but we’ve just decided that we’ll have to make it the weekend following after all. That’s Easter, we thought we’d go down on Saturday and stay till Monday night. Will you be free? We can always defer it again if you’re not but it would be nice if you were.’

‘I’m not quite sure, I’ll have to ask Jonathan.’

‘Oh, of course. Could you ask him now so that we can settle it?’

‘That’s a bit tricky. He isn’t here.’

‘Not there? Well, ask him as soon as he comes in and ring me back.’

‘I’m not sure … I’m not quite sure when he’s going to be back, he may be rather late.’

‘Goodness, has he gone away without you?’

‘More or less.’

‘Darling, you do sound odd. Is anything wrong?’

‘Not really.’

‘Darling, you sound as if you might be about to cry. Do tell me what has happened.’

‘I can’t.’ She was about to cry. She had thought her tears were all shed. She had assured herself that once the ironing was done, and the evening had fallen, and Jonathan had returned, and she and he had talked, properly talked, to each other, everything would be normal again. Normal and nice. They would be a normal, nice couple again, and could make amicable arrangements again, and accept amicable invitations, as normal, like this one, from Lizzie and Alfred Ainsworth, to spend a weekend at their cottage (their poky little cottage where Jonathan kept banging his head and their little vixen of a daughter woke them up at five in the morning: but still. The scenery was divine).

She was on the verge of tears, as long as she tried to speak, because underneath her assurance that everything would (in just a few hours’ time) return to niceness and normality was the black dread that it never would, and never could. No matter how beautifully she might iron Jonathan’s shirts.

‘Oh, Nicola, I don’t like the sound of this. Listen, I’m going to come round, I have to fetch Henrietta from Battersea later on anyway. So you stay just where you are, I’m going to go straight out and get into the car and whizz straight round. I’ll be with you before you know it.’ And Lizzie hung up, just like that. Nicola flopped down on to the sofa and began to cry. She had a good fifteen minutes to shed her tears and dry them too, because Lizzie was coming all the way from Islington. Lizzie was one of those women who like to be at the scene.

But her tears did not last so long this time as they had before. If I can manage to finish ironing that shirt that I’d just started, she thought, looking across the room at the ironing board, by the time Lizzie gets here then that will mean that everything is going to be alright: and she went back to the ironing board, and ironed as quickly as she knew how; but it won’t count, she admonished herself, if I don’t do it properly. No skimping. And she was as careful as ever with the sleeves, the really awkward part. She finished a moment before the buzzer sounded, heralding Lizzie. Everything was going to be alright.

15

‘Oh, Lizzie.’

‘Oh, Nicola. Now what is all this about?’

‘It’s nothing really. You shouldn’t have come.’

‘I like that. Shall I go away again then?’

‘No, stay and have some tea anyway.’

‘Alright. Goodness, how clean and tidy it looks here.’

‘Well, there’s the ironing – sorry about that, I’d just started—’

‘Goodness. Ironing as well. You are a treasure. I hope Jonathan’s grateful. His shirts, I see.’

‘Yes.’

‘Lucky Jonathan.’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, Nicola, do look at your face – oh – oh dear – oh, you are going to cry. Oh, Lord. Here, have you got a hanky? Oh dear. Poor Nicola. Now for Heaven’s sake, darling, do tell Lizzie. What is the matter?’

‘You’re really the last person I should be telling,’ said Nicola, between sobs. ‘Jonathan would kill me.’

‘Oh, would he just. Never mind him for the moment. Just tell me.’

It was dicey, alright. Susannah and Geoffrey were hers, but Alfred and Lizzie were Jonathan’s. Well, Alfred, at any rate: he and Jonathan had known each other since school. On the other hand, Nicola having made their acquaintance had become rather more of an intimate of Lizzie’s than Jonathan was of Alfred’s. But women were like that, as Alfred had remarked to himself – always getting together in corners and bonding: the phenomenon was clearly of evolutionary utility. He was quite content to leave them to it, as long as they weren’t evidently hatching anything significant. Alfred loved women, in their place, and was at all times ready to assert that some of his female colleagues – he being at the bar – were very able indeed: very. Lizzie, of course, was not and never had been a colleague: perish the thought!

‘Just let me make this tea first.’ Nicola went into the kitchen and made the tea and brought it into the sitting room. Lizzie was looking at the china dogs. She picked up a pug. ‘Is this Staffordshire?’ she asked. ‘Not exactly,’ said Nicola. ‘It’s a proper eighteenth-century one. Derby. Jonathan gave it to me.’

‘Don’t cry again.’

‘No, I won’t.’ She poured out the tea. ‘Jonathan,’ she said, ‘wants us to split up. He’s offered to buy me out.’

‘How long has this been going on?’

‘I’ve no idea. None at all. He just announced it, out of the blue, on Thursday night. Then he went to his parents for the weekend, straight from work on Friday. So I haven’t had a chance to talk to him properly. I mean, he wouldn’t discuss it on Thursday night. He just made his announcement and then clammed up. I was completely gobsmacked. I still am.’

‘So am I.’ And she was. They each drank some tea and Nicola began to eat a biscuit. ‘And you really had no warning – no sign – beforehand?’ asked Lizzie. ‘No. Well, for all I know there were signs which I was too thick to see, but—’

‘Tell me again exactly what he said and how.’ Nicola obliged. ‘Well,’ said Lizzie, ‘I must say that’s quite the creepiest thing I’ve heard of in a long while. He should be strung up. It’s an absolute outrage. And here you are, ironing his shirts! Nicola! What on earth are you thinking of?’

‘Oh,’ cried Nicola rather wildly, ‘don’t – don’t be too hard on him – I don’t know – we don’t know – the whole story; he may be entirely justified – it’s probably my fault completely – I just don’t know, yet.’

‘Only because he won’t tell you. The pig, the pig, the absolute pig. Your fault! My God, that creep of a Jonathan should go down on his bended knees to you every day of his life – you should have seen the state he was in before he met you! You’re the best thing that ever happened to him, and he doesn’t deserve you, not for five seconds. You’re well rid of him. He can go right back to where he was, and good riddance. Mournful putrid boring old Jonathan – he’s had his last invitation to my house, if Alf wants to see him he can have lunch with him, I’m not having him about the place. These old bachelors, really! Useless! My God! Men!’

Nicola had begun to laugh: and then she began to cry, as well: and then she was crying, as if her heart might break, and not laughing at all. ‘Oh, Nicola,’ said Lizzie, patting her shoulder; ‘he isn’t worth it; he can’t be; a man who can behave like that just isn’t worth it. A man who makes you cry so is never worth your tears.’

‘But I love him,’ said Nicola. ‘That’s the trouble, you see. I really do love him.’

‘You couldn’t have found anyone less deserving,’ said Lizzie.

‘I didn’t really try,’ said Nicola; and in the midst of her tears she and Lizzie began to laugh. ‘Oh, Christ,’ said Lizzie; ‘I mean, Christ.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicola. ‘You never said a truer word.’

16

‘Leaving aside the question of how you can love a rotten little creep like Jonathan in his present mode,’ said Lizzie, ‘not that women aren’t absolutely famous for loving rotten little creeps—’

‘Susannah says he’s a prat,’ said Nicola. ‘So does Geoffrey. Do you think he’s a prat?’

Lizzie considered. ‘Prat,’ she repeated. ‘Yes, yes, he is also a prat. Quite certainly. How are Susannah and Geoffrey? Nice people.’

‘They’re well.’

‘Bloody Jonathan. Your friends are wasted on him too. He doesn’t begin to appreciate you. But look, the point is, Nicola sweetie, what exactly are you thinking of doing, apart from ironing Jonathan’s shirts, which I absolutely order you not to do, my God, I can’t believe it, bloody shirts, of all things, Jermyn Street too I’ll bet, really hard work—’

‘Yes, well …’ said Nicola sadly. ‘The point is,’ said Lizzie, abandoning Jonathan’s shirts as a bad job, ‘what were you thinking of doing next, exactly? Now that the master has spoken.’

‘Well,’ said Nicola wanly, ‘I was just – I was more or less expecting, or hoping, to see him tonight. I thought we might be able to talk, then. After he’s been away from me for two days. And then, maybe, maybe we can sort it out. Maybe. I mean, I have to hope that. I have to hope.’ She looked as if she might begin to cry again. ‘Of course you do, my sweet,’ said Lizzie quickly. ‘Of course you do. But just in case you don’t. Just in case Jonathan’s decided to become a full-time complete professional dedicated creep and stick to his last, what then?’

‘Well then,’ said Nicola, ‘I’ll just have to clear off, won’t I?’

‘Not so fast,’ said Lizzie. ‘I mean, where will you go?’

‘Oh,’ said Nicola, ‘Susannah says I can go there until I get sorted out.’

‘That might take a while,’ said Lizzie.

‘Yes,’ said Nicola hopelessly.

‘You haven’t really thought this through, have you?’

‘No. I thought there wasn’t really any point until I knew for certain that I had to.’

‘It’ll mean buying another flat, won’t it?’

‘Yes. Something really cheap, at that.’

‘Quite.’

‘Well …’

‘The whole thing is a disgrace. You seem to have forgotten, you of all people, that this flat is actually your territory, morally speaking.’

Nicola pondered. ‘Well, I suppose you’re right,’ she said uncertainly. ‘You bloody bet I am,’ said Lizzie. And as a matter of fact, she did have a point.

17

Nicola had moved into this flat in her late twenties; quite soon she would have been living here for exactly five years.

The flat was one of those lucky scores – such things can’t be sought or even found serendipitously: they fall into the laps of those who manage to be in the right place at the right time by sheer accident. It had been one of the last of those dilapidated, rent-controlled Notting Hill flats, in a Victorian building whose 120-year lease was due when Nicola first moved in to expire a few years later.

The time arrived, the freehold of the building duly changed hands, and the new owners promptly notified each of the building’s several tenants of his or her consequent options. Nicola, like her neighbours, was presented thus with the choice either of vacating her flat in return for a cash payment, or of purchasing the leasehold of the flat herself. Were she simply to remain as tenant the flat would be modernised and, as the house agents say, substantially upgraded; a new and quite unaffordable rent would thereafter be levied. Nicola’s only possible choice – unable to afford to pay a higher rent, or to buy the leasehold – would have been to take the money and run; and she would have had to run rather a long way before finding another affordable flat – whether to rent, or to buy. It would not be so pretty nor so conveniently situated; she would certainly have been thrown into disarray for a period of several months or even years, had it not been for Jonathan.

Ah, Jonathan.

‘Well, it all looks pretty straightforward,’ he said. He was sitting on the sofa – the sofa that had been, the old wreck with its faded linen slipcover, when Nicola had been the sole inhabitant of this second-floor flat – reading through the letter from the new landlords, a property company with a Mayfair address. It had arrived in that morning’s post; she’d read it walking up the street to the tube: horrible. She’d telephoned Jonathan at work and asked him to come round that evening and take a butcher’s.

They’d been walking out for slightly less than a year: it seemed to be going quite beautifully: except for that edge of anxiety or even of fear – ‘can it last? are we actually – shall we – do you really love me?’ – never articulated but always there, like a drone note which was silenced only during the act of love itself. But they lived, she lived, in hope, because it seemed, it just absolutely seemed to be the right, and just possibly, in so far as anything might be, the perfect thing: Jonathan and Nicola. A nice couple. Nicola and Jonathan – a couple: better off in every significant way together than alone: a couple, with their own jokes, their own memories, and their own impregnable psychic space. ‘You couldn’t pop round tonight could you? Just quickly?’ ‘Of course. No problem. Shall I bring something to eat?’ ‘No, it’s alright. I think there’s some food …’ ‘Well, we can always go out. I’ll see you about sevenish.’

He’d arrived with some flowers for her, and a bottle of wine. ‘Jonathan, you are nice.’ ‘Am I? Am I? Come here.’ The dark blue smell of English serge: nothing else like it. Then the smell of Jonathan. Nothing else … ‘Now, where’s this letter of yours?’

Jonathan sitting on the old sofa, glass of wine in one hand, the letter in the other. ‘Well, it all looks pretty straightforward.’ ‘I hoped it wasn’t.’ ‘How do you mean?’ ‘I hoped there was a loophole.’ ‘No; you see …’ ‘So—’ while she was chopping something, or peeling something, getting their dinner together; he had come into the kitchen, he was leaning against a workbench, watching her; she stopped what she was doing. She stared down at the chopping board. ‘So … I don’t really have any choice.’ She felt completely hollow. It was a disaster. She was so perfectly happy, here. There was a view from the bedroom window of the communal gardens; you could hear children playing, shrieking, sometimes, with the joy that only children know. She picked up the vegetable knife again and stared at it as if ignorant of its function. ‘I’m going to have to find somewhere else to live.’ Slowly. The horror of it.

‘You could buy the leasehold. It’d be a steal: as the sitting tenant you’d get something like a one-third reduction in the market price.’

‘I know. I can’t afford it even then. I’ve been doing the arithmetic all day. You know what I earn – it’s just not possible.’

He thought for a moment. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said. ‘Well – look, what about getting on with the dinner, eh? I’m starving: I could get dangerous if we don’t eat soon. Here, have some more of this.’ He refilled her glass. ‘Can I do anything?’ ‘It’s okay. Alright. I’m nearly there.’ Carry on; be brave.

After they’d sat down and begun to eat, he looked across at her. ‘There is one other solution,’ he said. She’d thought of it too, of course. She was almost sick, now, with apprehension, hoping almost to the point of panic that he might say what she yearned to hear, fearful almost to certainty that he wouldn’t. ‘What could that be?’ She was wide-eyed with feigned innocence. What could that possibly be?

‘I seem to be spending most of my free time here as it is, these days,’ he said, in the tone of one making the most casual of remarks. ‘Crawford Street’s becoming simply a place where I keep my clothes.’ Jonathan had a murky little flat in a Georgian house in Crawford Street, WI. He ate another mouthful. ‘This is very good,’ he said. ‘You were saying.’ ‘Oh, yes. Well. I mean, it does seem an awful pity to let this place go.’ Another mouthful. ‘We’ve been happy here, haven’t we?’ She said nothing; she was too fearful, too overwhelmed with fear and terror and burgeoning hope. He looked up from his food, still holding his fork. ‘Haven’t we?’ he repeated: and she saw anxiety, even fear, in his eyes too. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, we have. That is, I know I have. If you have too.’ She was still terrified of what he might or might not say. ‘Come here,’ he said. ‘You’re too far away’ She got up and went to him, and he pulled her down on to his knee. He held her in his arms for a moment and then looked up at her. ‘Do you think,’ he said, ‘that we might manage to make a go of living here together? All the time? Are you game for that?’

She smiled, she could not for the moment speak. She buried her face in the hollow between his neck and shoulder. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What do you think?’

18

Michael Gatling (very distantly related to the inventor of the gun) had just returned from taking his daughter Nicola to the station for the London train. His wife Elinor was still washing up the tea things.

‘I don’t know why he doesn’t have done, and marry her,’ he said, getting out the sherry. ‘I suppose he will, in due course,’ said Elinor, rattle, rattle. ‘He’s just running a little trial.’ ‘Bloody cheek,’ said Michael. ‘The trial’s on the other foot, as far as I’m concerned. The nerve of these chaps.’

‘Still,’ said Elinor, ‘at least she’ll be able to keep the flat. Such a very charming place. It’s a pity we couldn’t help her more.’

‘Tush,’ said Michael. ‘I’m only a poor civil servant. She hardly expected anything at all, she’s more than grateful for the five thou’. So she should be.’

‘Ah, my baby. My last child. How sad it all is, somehow.’

‘Honestly, Nellie, you do talk some awful rot. It’s fathers who are meant to be sentimental, not mothers. Here, stop washing up and drink this.’ He handed her a glass of amontillado. She sat down. She was frowning slightly. ‘I do hope they’ll be happy,’ she said. ‘We must look out something for a housewarming present, once it’s all settled.’

‘Never mind that,’ said Michael. ‘Wait until it’s time for a wedding present.’ ‘Just something very small,’ said Elinor. ‘I might go into Brighton this week and have a poke around the junk shops.’ ‘Alright,’ said Michael. ‘But something truly small. They might feel we’re putting the pressure on, otherwise.’

‘Oh, but we wouldn’t dream of doing that,’ said Elinor. ‘Would we?’ ‘Not us,’ said Michael. ‘Not card-carrying moderns like us. Nevertheless, I don’t know why he doesn’t have done, and marry her.’

Nicola, travelling back to London in a second-class compartment on the Brighton – Victoria line, was almost delirious with happiness. It had all happened so fast – just a few days ago she had been holding that appalling letter in her hand, her heart beating with fear and dismay: now with a turn of the kaleidoscope all the pieces of her life had been rearranged into a different and more beautiful pattern. Jonathan and she were going jointly to purchase the leasehold of the Notting Hill flat; they would own a half share each, because her total contribution to the cost would take into consideration the discount due to her as the sitting tenant. Her parents having so magnificently chipped in with £5,000 she should be able quite easily to borrow the remainder of her share from the bank: you could almost hear the click as everything fell into place.

‘Well – I might as well put Crawford Street on the market straight away,’ Jonathan had said before leaving her, that night of the letter. He was going to do nicely out of Crawford Street, which he’d bought at the very beginning of the property boom. ‘You’d better wait until I see my parents,’ Nicola had replied. ‘I don’t know that I’ll be able to manage my share without them.’ ‘Oh, everything will work out,’ said Jonathan airily. He was so very much richer than she: he could afford to be airy. But now everything had in fact worked out; it was almost magical.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.