“I find that utterly disgusting,” Wayland said, but I caught the flavour of envy, suggesting that he might be redeemable after all, at least in the next life. At the moment though he didn’t like me coming out with such patter in front of his Lady Guinevere, not daring to say so because he could see she enjoyed it.
Her lips moved more from regret that Blaskin wasn’t humping her than out of jealousy. She blushed under her make-up, and laughed. “He certainly has a way with words.”
“He most surely does. I further heard him schmooze while still at the door: ‘How can a specimen of beauty and honour like you have any truck with a moral delinquent like me? Life is a trilogy — but don’t write this down yet — of childhood, boyhood and youth, except that my youth is lasting till death, my delectable darling.’”
Margery drained her Cointreau. “And then?”
Getting a hard-on at my erotic ruminations, I had no option but to go on. “He was leaving no stone unturned to make sure of her. As I finally left he was lifting off her little lacy bra. She didn’t seem to mind a bit.”
“He never changes.”
“Where would the world be if he did?”
“But is he working on anything?”
“Apart from that girl, he’s writing — or so he told me — a novel to end novels, though I can’t think it will be his last. He told me last week that a book called Ulysses, which I don’t know anything about because I’ve never read it, has led a lot of writers of the 20th century being lured into a cul de sac, and it’s his duty to turn out a novel that would get them out. He was pissed out of his ribald mind, so I can’t vouch that he’ll ever do it.”
She showed almost as much interest in that as my sex talk. “It sounds a fascinating idea. I’ll phone and see if he’ll give me an interview. I’m sure I could get it on the air — if we edit it for swearing.”
“He’d love to see you,” I said, enjoying Wayland’s look of horror at the possibility of losing his girlfriend to a lecher like Blaskin. If I couldn’t have her I was more than happy for him to ply his randy old corkscrew, as I’m sure she was. On the other hand maybe Wayland felt easier on leaving me with Margery now that I had made Blaskin the villain. “I must get back to the office,” he said, neglecting to thank me for the beer, not that I expected it, having set it before him only to make his ulcers jump.
“You going back to Richmond?” I said to her, moving close now that the field was clear.
“I shall be, later.”
“There’s something I couldn’t tell you in front of Wayland.” I kissed her cheek. “It would have been inappropriate.”
“So I imagine. But what is it?”
“I’ve fallen in love. No, don’t say anything. Not yet. It’s those expressive eyes, and your subtle inviting lips. The combination goes straight to my heart, and touches something I never knew was there. So is it any surprise, feeling the way I do?”
She straightened herself. “You’re too bloody articulate for my liking. You’re worse than Gilbert.”
“Don’t say that. More often than not I’m painfully tongue tied, though I can prove my devotion if we go back to Richmond.” Such talk showed me her half-naked body with legs spread, and I was disappointed on hearing: “I work too hard to have random affairs.”
“So do I, but I’d willingly sacrifice my time in such a cause,” I said, in her ear at a couple of men trying to get my drift. For a moment I saw her fighting to change her mind, but I had realised by now that you can’t win ’em all, and in any case didn’t fancy going out as far as Eel Pie Island, so wasn’t let down when she said: “Thanks for the offer, Michael. I appreciate it at my age. But no.”
“There’s just one thing,” I told her. “Just forget Moggerhanger and the Green Toe Gang. Or let Wayland go it alone. I love you too much to see your agreeable features not looking as pleasant as I always find them.”
At Liverpool Street Station I looked around for Bill Straw, but his begging site was taken by a bearded young man and his dog. I supposed Bill had found a better pitch, so threw the dog a quid and, buying an Evening Standard, went back into the Underground, my intention of going to Upper Mayhem scattered in the wind by pangs of guilt towards Frances.
I took a train west, on my feet all the way. Between the morning and evening rush hour there used to be plenty of seats, but not anymore, and I wondered where all the people came from, and whether the government wasn’t cooking the population figures, lying as usual about everything.
I got into the house with keys Frances thought I’d thrown on the table in anger two weeks ago. To pass the time I searched her private drawers, for letters from boyfriends, or a running-away fund of stashed banknotes, knowing I wouldn’t find anything because she lived for work that was too exhausting to allow any hanky-panky.
At the kitchen table with a mug of coffee, I heard the car, so put the kettle back on before she came through the door. My name was uttered with just the right tone of enthusiasm: “How did you get in?”
“You left the window open, in your hurry to go out mending ’em and bandaging ’em. Join me in some coffee. I’ll take it to the living room.”
I put hers into a cup and saucer instead of the usual Coronation mug and, as she sat down, the bun of auburn hair, like a new baked farmhouse loaf, started to slip a bit. Her normally pale face, skin that anyone would call fine, was even more pallid from overwork, worrying that one of her patients might be saving up drugs to kill himself. Young as she was, lines were starting to show at the mouth and forehead. She cleaned her small gold-rimmed glasses. “Why didn’t I hear from you?”
“Didn’t you get my postcard? I sent it airmail.”
“Only this morning. It’s on the shelf in the surgery. I enjoyed looking at it between patients. But you could have phoned me.”
I sounded a fool. “The job was top secret.”
“You’ve gone to pieces since leaving the agency. Geoffrey said you would.” She was weeping. “And I always thought you were so strong.”
She was trying to stop smoking, but when I gave her a cigarette she puffed at it, and seemed more relaxed. “Geoffrey was glad to get rid of me,” I told her, “and so were the others. As for me, my spirit at the agency was dying because of the false life I was leading. The work was killing me. I lied that I was enjoying it to camouflage the truth that I was going out of my mind.” The only way to stop her tears was to tell the story of my trip to Greece which, being from my experience and not my damaging imagination, was long enough for them to dry. I took my time, and put on a good performance, up to Moggerhanger handing me the cheque. “You can have a couple of thousand towards the mortgage.”
“I don’t want it.”
I wrote it, all the same, but she leaned the slip of paper against my empty mug. “You’ll need whatever money you have for yourself.”
She was right. I most likely would. As well as earning a fair amount as a doctor she had inherited money, something I hadn’t known when we met, and I had never asked how much. Taking up with a woman who has her own money is an added bonus, but in any case I’d chipped in plenty from my salary towards the house, so I put it in my pocket.
She held my hands. “Your story was a good one, but I’ve heard so many in the last three years that I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
I was struck to the core by this lack of trust. “Even if I tried to tell you about the mechanics of lying you’d accuse me of making it up for my own advantage. I never lie as a cover for any nefarious activities. You know very well I’ve had no affairs since the day we met.”