into the bathroom, she splashed her face with cool water and sat down on the toilet seat. She thought again of the telephone message waiting, with all the others.
It was only a matter of time before she answered one of them.
I am insane, she thought. I’m broken and bad and cannot be fixed.
Covering her face with her hands, she cried.
Jack finished his cup of tea and walked round to the front of the house, unpacking his bag and his equipment, the digital camera and notebooks, from the boot of the car. He caught the faint smell of cigarette smoke and looked up at the open window on the first floor. He smiled. She’d been sneaking a crafty fag!
So, she wasn’t quite as well behaved as she appeared.
It amused him to think of her, only feet away, doing forbidden, clandestine things.
He walked into the house, his footsteps echoing across the cool marble floor, and up the stairs. As he reached the top, a door closed to the right of the landing. So he turned left, heading down the opposite end of the hall. In the master bedroom, he threw his things down on the bed and took off his jacket. Crossing to the open window, he looked out over the lawn.
There was a crackle of anticipation, a tension in the air that he hadn’t felt in years. And it threw him off balance. It was wrong to be excited by this girl; to look forward to standing next to her, to seeing her. Already he was devising possible subjects for dinner conversation; questions and clever little observations that might impress her. He was wound up, he could feel it.
What an idiot!
But in truth, it was terrifying to feel anything again.
He was used to being on his own. It was safe. And he had a routine now. He sat at the same tables in the same cafes, ordered the same food. The waitress remembered how he took his coffee, the owner chatted about the book he was reading. (They knew how to treat a regular customer.) And there were things you could do, if not happily, at least peacefully, quietly – wander around galleries, listen to concerts, sit in the cinema on your own, in the dark. This was his life.
But now, for a moment at least, the seat next to him had been taken. He could still smell her perfume.
Don’t be seduced by the romance of the setting, he reminded himself. It’s about sex, pure and simple. It always was, always would be. It came dressed up as love, passion and romantic obsession, but sooner or later the gilding wore off and the coin underneath was always plain old sex.
Suddenly a memory seeped through his defences. He winced inwardly but couldn’t stop it. He was reaching across to touch his wife, when he saw her face, her large, dark eyes. They were full of sadness and, worse, resignation. He pushed it away but the feeling lingered.
Sex had been unsatisfactory. That was the truth. Reduced to a kind of shorthand, pornographic role play. The act itself wasn’t faked but the connection was, which was worse.
And he hadn’t wanted to discuss it or fix it. That was the awful thing. There’d been a part of him that had found it easier; that wanted to let go. It was as if he’d wished her away.
He was guilty of the crime of withdrawing. She’d seen it and let him go.
That haunted him too.
Jack turned away from the bucolic view.
It was a massive bedroom, practically the size of his entire flat. That’s what you got when you moved out of London – space, beauty, freedom.
He ought to move. He ought to start again somewhere new.
Sinking down on the bed, he yawned, rubbing his eyes.
He ought to do a lot of things.
It wasn’t a long-distance car, his Triumph. His back was stiff from driving. Lying flat, he closed his eyes.
Still, those hours driving across the countryside with Cate by his side were the happiest he’d had in a long time. The sun, the speed, the exuberance of Mozart contrasting with her calm, cool presence. It was exhilarating. He’d felt the hope of happiness; its possibility glimmering on the horizon, like a destination. He hadn’t realised how long he’d lived without the hope of anything, dragging himself mechanically through days, months, years. Now there was an aching in his chest, an animal desire to touch and be touched; to punch his way through the inertia of loss and grief.
He sat up, forced his fingers roughly through his hair.
It was insane to be so taken with this girl. He didn’t even know her.
He was just tired, lonely. Bored.
Still, there were laws of physics, of nature; mysterious, inconvenient gravitational pulls which couldn’t be denied.
At the opposite end of the house, a woman, a complete stranger, was drawing closer all the time.
17, Rue de MonceauParis
24 June 1926
My darling Bird,
You will be pleased to know that I have finally perfected the art of pressing myself up alluringly against a man while dancing and at the same time maintaining an expression of complete and utter indifference verging on contempt. Anne says it is essential and we have been practising it all week. Now all we need are some men.
How is that dashing Baronet of yours? I’m certain his shyness only masks an ardour that will soon make itself known to you (again, details of all carnal encounters kindly requested).
You are probably right that this business of coming out is more difficult and exhausting than I imagine and perhaps, as you say, I would benefit from taking a more serious view of the entire task. But as we both well know, seriousness is not my strong suit. I am, alas, not gifted with your natural good sense but rather destined to be somewhat ridiculous by comparison. I console myself that you have gone before me, made innumerable social contacts and charmed everyone so completely that when I arrive they will simply indulge me as an oddity before packing me off to a remote corner of the Empire with some ageing, palsy-ridden husband in tow.
And yes, I suppose my remarks about our mother are a little cruel. I should be more kind. Especially to Her Consort, the Benefactor of so much Good in our lives.
I know we are lucky, Irene. We certainly have a great deal more than we have ever had. And yet I miss Fa and, if truth be known, I hate Paris and all who sail in her. I am not like you, darling. I am not naturally good or calm or sensible. And I have the feeling of being a fake, everywhere I go–like an actress wandering around onstage in a play she hasn’t read, who can’t recall any of her lines. You seem to understand everything perfectly–why am I such a dolt?
Yours, as always,
The Idiot Child
She tried to nap, but still Cate was restless. She sat up on the bed. It was a vast room, as big as most flats in New York. An entire wall of windows looked out onto a vista of rolling hills, curving dramatically down to the sea.
Who
