it across the foot of the bed. Her silk nightdress, made for her in exactly the same shade, was cut on the bias so it clung to her, with a translucent lace inset from the mock-demure high neck to the top of her breasts. Peter didn’t even glance at it. ‘Come here,’ he said. ‘Get into bed.’
Isabel did as she was told, sliding under the covers and then lying still, trying to make her stiff body relax. Peter’s large hands reached out and moved over her, groping for an opening in the folds of silk.
‘Take this thing off,’ he begged. Isabel sat up again and reached up to undo the tiny pearl buttons. She lifted the nightdress off over her head. Peter groaned, a long Uhhhhn sound that frightened her, making her think that he was ill. But he slid across the bed to her, and put his mouth on her breast. He began biting and gnawing at it, the blond stubble on his chin tearing at her skin. Isabel drew in her breath sharply with shock and disgust, and Peter lifted his head.
‘Like that, do you? That’s good.’
He pushed her backwards so that she was lying flat, and then hung over her. He was naked, and the heat of his heavy, hairy body shocked her again. Peter kissed her, rubbing all over her lips with his mouth and tongue, making little grunting noises under his breath. Isabel’s mouth felt frozen, with a choking sensation at the back of her throat as if she might vomit. This was nothing like the times Peter had kissed her before, gently, so that she had wanted to kiss him back and answer his tongue with her own. He had even touched her breasts before, reverently, with the tips of his fingers. Now he was kneading her as if she belonged to him.
You do belong to him, a cold voice reminded her. You are this man’s lawful wedded wife.
This bristly, panting creature with a sweating, screwed-up face was her handsome, confident husband.
Now Peter moved his hand down between her legs, parting them with his fist. His fingers probed at her, and then he groaned again.
‘Sorry. Can’t hold on,’ he whispered. His breath burned her ear. He heaved himself on top of her. Something bumped and then stabbed, bluntly. Isabel clenched her teeth to stop herself screaming. There was a jolt of pain and then her husband buried himself inside her. He began to rock up and down, tearing at her inside, and moaning in his throat. Isabel tried not to listen or to feel. She tried to retreat into some cold, white, locked place inside her head.
‘Oh God!’ Peter shouted, and then came a roar, so pain-filled that her arms tightened protectively around him. He jerked involuntarily, his face distorted and drops of his sweat falling on her face.
At last the jerking stopped and his full weight sank on top of her, the roar dropping away into a sob.
Isabel stroked his damp shoulders, staring up past him at the curlicued wallpaper on the ceiling. If it wasn’t so horrible, she thought, it would be funny. It was so absurd. And it was pathetic, and hardly human.
Peter slid away, leaving his hot stickiness all over her.
‘Was it all right?’ he whispered, like a child asking for a sweet.
‘Not very,’ Isabel said, longing for him to comfort her.
‘I’m sorry.’ He sounded huffy. ‘I was too excited, and I’d had a bit too much to drink You’ll like it better in the morning.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘Good night, darling. I love you.’
Isabel lay very still, listening to his breathing deepening into snores. When he was properly, deeply asleep, she promised herself, she would get up and wash.
At least it was quick, she consoled herself as she waited. At least it was quick.
Appleyard Street, just off Bloomsbury Square. That was where Tony Hardy had said they were going. Amy peered out of the grimy window of the bus as they rumbled past Selfridges. The lit-up windows were full of spring fashions, print frocks and little straw hats, although the daffodils were barely out in Hyde Park and a week’s icy rain and high winds had already flattened them to the grass.
Outside the front doors in Bruton Street, Amy had stood poised on the steps, automatically expecting Tony to wave to a cab. But he had taken her arm and steered her briskly towards Park Lane.
‘Only a twopenny bus ride to Appleyard Street,’ he said.
‘Yes, of course.’
Amy could almost count the number of times she had been on a bus before. Past Selfridges she turned to Tony. He was smoking and frowning over a sheet of typewritten paper.
‘What’s the meeting about, exactly?’
‘Oh, the usual sort of thing. Welcome to new members of the group. A paper, read by one of the old guard. This month’s is entitled “From Dialectic to Daily Practice. A Pan-European Approach”. Then a guest speaker. Tonight’s is Will Easterbrook from the Trades Union Congress Executive. He should be interesting. And then there will be a discussion of arrangements for the hunger march.’
Seeing Amy’s blank stare Tony began to laugh. ‘You did ask to come.’
‘Hunger march?’ she asked quickly. ‘What’s that?’
‘Don’t you know? This one is one of my friend Jake Silverman’s projects. You’ll meet Jake tonight. And you’ll hear plenty about the march.’
Not wanting to betray any more ignorance, Amy went back to studying the Oxford Street windows. The shops were familiar but she felt that she was travelling past them into new territory. It was if by simply stepping on to the bus she had set out in a new direction. She was looking forward to what the evening would bring, with an eagerness that she hadn’t felt for a long time.
When the bus reached High Holborn, Tony rang the bell and they jumped off together.
Amy had never penetrated into this corner of London before. She peered interestedly at the shops, mostly small grocers, and bookshops with pavement display cases emptied and locked up for the night. There was hardly anyone in the streets, and no traffic at all, but the lights behind curtained windows over the shops spoke of tiny flats full of people.
Appleyard Street was exactly like the others. Tony stopped in front of a bookshop with a smeared window crammed full of haphazardly arranged books. A violently lettered poster stuck to the glass commanded UNITE. FIGHT FOR YOUR RIGHTS. Tony rang the side door bell and then pushed the door open. The hallway and steep stairs facing them were completely bare, and lit by a single bulb with a cracked glass shade.
Tony waved her inside with an ironic flourish. ‘Welcome to the Centre for Socialist Studies. First floor. Jake has a flat at the top, where we shall adjourn later. Shall I lead the way?’
Amy nodded. She was very cold, and annoyed to find that she was disconcerted by the bleakness of their destination.
The big first-floor room had three uncurtained windows overlooking the street. It was packed with rows of upright wooden chairs, most of them occupied. At the front was a table covered with a red cloth, with another half-dozen chairs arranged behind it. The room was warm, heated by a glowing gas fire. At the rickety card table beside the door Tony stopped to sign his name in a register. Underneath it he wrote ‘A. Lovell. Guest.’
‘It’s
