hips. Not thin, but on the thin side. Nice.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he said.
As he kissed her he felt that she was a little stiff and distant. He wanted to get up, to walk outside, to drink fruit juice. He kissed her arm, and drew gently up his nose her particular range of scents, which reminded him of a tin full of broken biscuits and grass, not that he had ever smelt a tin full of broken biscuits and grass. He pulled the sheet over their heads to make a dark secret place, wanting as he did so to watch cricket, to loll against a gate, to drink fruit juice. Feeling as he wanted that he must seek an explanation of her sudden slight stiffness, of her withdrawal symptoms. And as he sought his explanation still wanting, wanting the sun, laughter, fruit juice.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Yes. Something is. Tell me.’
‘It’s just me, being me,’ said Jane.
‘Tell me.’
‘No. Quick. Talk about yourself. Tell me all about yourself.’
He was astonished at the urgency of her appeal. But he obeyed. It was nice to be told to talk about oneself.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m a fairly ordinary person.’
‘Rub me gently while you talk,’ she said.
While he talked he rubbed her gently. His eyes were looking at the soft white clouds. Part of his mind was thinking solely of fruit juice.
He told her about his Uxbridge childhood. School. University. Nostalgic trivia. Selected anecdotes. Humorous self-deprecation. Himself seeing his own life in a wry light. Paula, the only other woman he had ever slept with. A few snatches of self-truth.
‘Thank you. That’s better,’ she said when he had finished.
‘Good.’
She explained about her symptoms. Something about seeing herself as something outside herself, therefore being a void looking at herself. Undoubtedly true, yet difficult to believe in. Difficult to comprehend the experience.
‘You don’t mind?’ she asked.
‘Of course not.’
There was a knock on the door. They both sat up, alarmed.
‘Are you there, Mrs Hassett?’ came a comfortingly unconcerned voice.
‘Yes. What is it, Patsy?’
‘There’s been a bit of trouble, Mrs Hassett, over light bulbs. There’s two gone and we can’t find …’
‘Just a moment. I’ll come and see to it.’
Thank God. It wasn’t him.
‘Time to get up anyway,’ said Jane. ‘And you’re due back on duty, aren’t you? I’m your employer, don’t forget.’
‘I hope I give every satisfaction, ma’am.’
She jumped out of bed, tip-toed rapidly to her clothes, shy now of her nudity, pale, a few veins showing, her breasts themselves light bulbs, her buttocks superb. She dressed rapidly, kissed him and left the room, locking the door behind her.
Ugh, the necessity for stealth.
This was their bedroom, hers and Tony’s. But he didn’t feel an intruder, perhaps because it was part of the hotel, or perhaps because there were no photos of smiling innocent children on the dressing table.
He began to dress, keeping well away from the window. Mrs Hassett! He repudiated the Hassett. Did this mean that he was repudiating her past life. ‘You won’t accept that my whole life before we met has actually happened,’ Paula had said. ‘You’re jealous of my having a past.’ Unfair. No, it was just that it was Hassett. Now if it was … but he couldn’t think of any name that he would have been happy to find her already bearing.
And he must stop thinking of Paula.
Well, Paula dear, we are free of each other and I see now that it is all for the best. Anyway, Paula, I’m sorry that I was such a bore, sending all those awful unfair letters, and visiting the seat in Kensington Gardens like that, though of course you didn’t know I was doing that. I only hope that you and Simon will be happy, and that his translations of Ogden Nash are coming along well. Correction — I hope that you and Simon will bust up and that he will find it impossible to continue with his translations of Ogden Nash, but that you will find someone else and be very happy. Thank you for everything, and good-bye.
Duck with honey? Jugged woodcock? You would need either a very large woodcock or a very small jug.
The key scraped in the lock and he had to resist the temptation to hide. The door opened. It was Jane.
‘You go downstairs first, looking natural,’ she said. ‘I’ll follow.’
‘It’s so sordid. Things are going to be a little awkward.’
‘I know.’
‘I don’t really think my place is the answer. We shouldn’t broadcast the fact to Brenda,’ said Pegasus.
‘No.’
‘Besides, it wouldn’t exactly be the ideal love nest. Not with all those books and toys.’
‘Not with Wol and Piglet and Eeyore.’
‘Not to mention Major James Bigglesworth, better known to all his friends as Biggles.’
10
Mervyn arrived unexpectedly on the day before the picnic. He came unheralded as always, on the Ipswich bus, just in time to get the last room at the hotel. It was his half-term. He seemed surprised that Pegasus didn’t give up all his duties the moment he arrived. Mervyn was the most demanding of all his friends, and the closest. More a mutual need than a friendship.
Tony was present this week-end so Mervyn’s presence suited Pegasus and Jane. But it was a pity about the picnic. Mervyn was the last person you wanted on an occasion of that sort.
‘Your mind is not over the job,’ said Alphonse, noting Pegasus’s absent-minded attack on the unfreezing of some fresh spinach.
Pegasus made no reply. He was beginning to think less highly of Alphonse. He was uninspired. No finesse. And lazy. ‘Please to open for me a tin of pâté maison. Well, I am not making my own. They are not appreciating it, English pigs.’ Pegasus felt that he had drifted into catering simply because he was French, just as, if he was Panamanian, he’d be Sparks on some rusty coaster. He was just doing a job, rather than expressing his essential Alphonseness. But Pegasus remained outwardly respectful, not wanting to get in the man’s bad books, and be kept on this routine work for ever.
Steam rising, Tonio swearing, trout sizzling. Enter Jane, busy supervising. Hotel moving towards success. All comments favourable. A special smile from Jane, concealed in an ordinary smile. A rising leap in Pegasus, a salmon leaping, hollandaise sauce spawning. Spurt of water. Tiny pains
