because right now you’re up to your neck in it. And meanwhile, there are traffic bollards in your head to keep you from getting at what it was like in the olden days with Lawrence. My money says it wasn’t different at all.”
“You think everyone goes round in the same cycle. You get all very giddy and infatuated at ‘the beginning,’ and then inevitably the fire dies down to sorry little embers. So in no time I’ll be having mechanical, impersonal relations with Ramsey three times a week instead of with Lawrence.”
“If you’re lucky.”
“I refuse to accept that.”
“Then you’ll find out the hard way, cookie.” Betsy’s eyes sharpened when they caught Irina glancing surreptitiously at her watch. “I’ll stand behind you whatever you do, because you’re my friend. And I promise I won’t say this again. Still, I’d feel remiss if I didn’t at least say it once. Lawrence may not be God’s gift to womankind. But—don’t laugh, this isn’t unimportant—he is a ‘good provider.’ He’s solid, and I’m pretty sure he loves you like all get out, whether or not he’s always able to show it. He’s the kind of man you’d want around in a flood or an earthquake, or when some hood is breaking into your house. Icing on the cake, he’s a caustic, irreverent son of a bitch, and I like him. I’m not saying that a girl doesn’t gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. Just because if you leave him you’ll break his heart doesn’t mean you shouldn’t follow your nose—literally, from the sound of it. But I think you’d miss him.”
“And, in the other event, wouldn’t I miss Ramsey?”
“I don’t doubt that cutting this thing off right now would probably feel like hacking off your arm. But it would grow back. You’ve been with Lawrence, what, ten years?”
“Close,” said Irina absently.
“That’s like a bank account, steadily accruing interest. You are frugal. Don’t shoot your wad. You could blow your savings on some fancy, shiny gadget. Then when it jams, you’ll be stuck with this glorified paperweight in your bed, and you’ll be broke.”
It wasn’t nice, but Irina was no longer paying attention, and she asked for the bill. That’s what happens when people give you advice that you don’t care to take: their voices go tinny and mincing, like a radio playing in another room.
Betsy folded her arms. “Doesn’t Ramsey live a few blocks from here?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” Irina stirred her bag for her wallet.
“Next question.” Betsy’s eyes were flinty. “Are you or are you not walking back with me to the Mile End tube?”
“I might—take a cab.”
“Swell. We can share one.”
“Borough’s not on your way.”
“I don’t mind the ride.”
“Oh, stop it! Yes, if you must know, I am. We hardly ever get to see each other in the evening. I won’t have long, either.”
“Did you really want to see me? Or am I just a beard?”
“Yes, I really wanted to see you. Can’t you tell? Two birds, one stone is all.”
“So you drag me all the way out to the East End—”
“I’m sorry about that. I have warm associations with this place. We—well, the management isn’t into snooker, so they don’t know who he is. And I do like the food.”
“That’s funny. You didn’t eat any.”
“I told you, my appetite is crap.”
“If Lawrence asks me when we wrapped things up here, I’ll have to tell him.”
“He won’t ask.” This was true, but there was something sad about that.
Irina tried to treat her friend, but Betsy was having none of it, as if refusing to be bought off. They split the bill. Walking down Roman Road, they said nothing.
At Grove Road, where Betsy would turn left and Irina right, Betsy faced her. “I don’t like to be used, Irina.”
“I’m sorry.” She was fighting tears. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”
“You’ve got to talk to Lawrence.”
“I know. But lately we can’t seem to talk about anything.”
“I wonder why that would be.”
“He’s such a purist about loyalty. If I ever allow that I’ve been attracted to someone else, he’ll slam the door in my face. And I’d destroy his friendship with Ramsey. I don’t think I can say anything without being sure what I want to do.”
“Lawrence is a good man, Irina. They’re thin on the ground. Think twice.”
“You’re panting!”
“I ran. We don’t have much time.”
“Get in here, pet, you’ll catch your death. Your hands!”
They crossed the threshold, hips locked like freight cars. Closing the door with his back, Ramsey massaged her fingers with his own.
It was a minor malady, and common: Raynaud’s disease, which sent the small blood vessels of the extremities into spasm at even moderately cool temperatures. Now that September had kicked in, the problem had returned. When it was diagnosed, Lawrence had suggested, for working in the studio during the day, a pair of fingerless gloves.
Not bad advice. But when she’d explained the ailment to Ramsey at Best of India last week, he’d instinctively reached across the table, working the corpse-cold flesh until its temperature conformed to the touch of a live woman.
A minor distinction, or so it would seem. Lawrence came up with a technical solution, and Ramsey a tactile one. But for Irina the contrast was night-and-day. Oh, she’d rarely complained. Big deal, she got cold hands; there were worse fates. Lawrence had even bought her those fingerless gloves, which helped a bit. But on some winter nights out her hands got so stiff that she couldn’t turn the front-door key, and she’d have to knock with her foot. Yet not once had Lawrence massaged her fingers with his own until they warmed. He was a considerate man, ever drawing her attention to up-and-coming publishers, and she never lacked for little presents, sometimes for no occasion at all. But she didn’t first and foremost crave professional advice, or thoughtful trinkets. She wanted a hand to hold.
“Brandy?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t,” she said, accepting a snifter. “I was on edge at dinner, and went through a bottle of wine like seltzer.”
As usual, he led her to the basement, where they nestled onto a leather couch with the light over the snooker table switched on. The expanse of green baize glowed before them like a lush summer field; they might have been picnicking in a pasture.
“I
