The Age of Discretion

by Virginia Duigan

  Apart from a fleeting moment of doubt on the train (nothing that couldn’t be brushed off and swept aside) she was treating this escapade as a bit of fun. Her mood could be described as happy-go-lucky and hang the consequences. Not that there should be any. The Rev Daunt might have a wife and young child, but it was clear (and morally reassuring) that his marriage was in meltdown. Unless he was an actor of Shakespearean calibre, and Viv didn’t think this was a realistic possibility, his state of disarray was genuine.

  Viv had told Martin Glover she was ambivalent about the Reverend, but Paris, Bob Mitchum and the existence of two bedrooms had tipped the scales. She stopped short of asking Martin whether he believed the Rev was the genuine article; she intended to do some covert research of her own in Paris.

  The train was on time. The city wove its usual spell. The walk from Bastille was quick and easy. Viv pulled her case along two sides of the beguiling Place des Vosges, pausing to admire the symmetry of its arches and look into lighted restaurant windows.

  She found the address in a charming, winding street. Close to a bakery (perfect for breakfast), bistros and bars, on the top floor of a walk-up. By the time she pressed the bell she was disposed to find anything pleasing, not excluding the person – not much more than a stranger – who opened the door of what she recognised as a formal Parisian apartment of a certain type. Sedate, with parquet floors and the kind of gilded furniture she usually disliked. Here on exotic territory the curved legs and padded brocades struck her as quite agreeable. Glass doors (French, naturally) gave a view of the street and a miniature balcony with iron railings.

  The Rev was in mufti again. Jeans, this time, teamed with desert boots and an Aran sweater. There were signs of his occupancy. An overflowing ashtray sat on a side table with flimsy legs, next to a wine glass and a bottle of burgundy with a fancy label. Nearly empty, she noticed.

  Good of her to come, he said. A kiss on both cheeks, which produced a responsive tingle. He smelled, not unpleasantly, of wine. Glad to see she travelled light. His wife was one of those women who couldn’t go anywhere without fifty-two hatboxes, not that they ever went anywhere these days. Viv could have taken an earlier train. He’d absconded from the conference, which was as deadly as all of their ilk.

  Viv found herself disposed to overlook ‘those women’. Was the conference about doctrinal matters? Something like that, he hadn’t taken much notice. ‘A blessed relief to be off the ruddy isle of xenophobes, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘This is a tolerable bolthole. At least it doesn’t freeze your nuts off. Can’t do anything about the chi-chi furnishings, I’m afraid.’

  Very tolerable indeed as boltholes went, Viv agreed. He seemed more relaxed than in London, but with the same ration of attitude. In her present mood Viv was feeling sufficiently amiable for two.

  The small bedrooms opened off the hall. A mirror image of each other, each with a spindly-legged armchair, a bow-fronted chest of drawers and a double bed. White, with gilt decoration. An open leather holdall with a jumble of clothing, files and folders was parked in one. Nearby, draped (ostentatiously?) over the chair was a clerical shirt and collar. Tom put her case in the other room, without comment. Viv gave him marks for this.

  He didn’t have a say in the decor, then? The eyes under the heavy lids rolled. She had to be joking. They rented the place out in summer to other grisly nouveaus like themselves. They? The in-laws of course, he said, who do you think?

  That would be why the flat was so impersonal. The only photo was on the mantelpiece: an ornamental, willowy young woman with her head thrown back and the sullen expression of a catwalk model. Sabrina, presumably, before the post-baby alterations. Tom turned it to the wall with a dismissive snort.

  A gesture at the bathroom. ‘Do you want to have a pee or anything? Powder your nose? But don’t make yourself too much at home. The plan is to get the hell out of here asap. Could you use some exotic booze? I’ve booked an early dinner round the corner. Nice little place. Any problems with any of that?’

  Not so you’d notice, Viv said.

  And it wasn’t the evening that would be the problem. Although admittedly the quantity of booze put away in the course of it was (almost certainly) unwise. It was not responsible for what took place afterwards, not by any means, but it did exert some influence.

  It was far more than Viv had put away in one sitting for a great many years. Kicked off by two cocktails apiece in a darkened basement done up like a speakeasy, then a stroll through lamplit streets to a cobblestoned cul-de-sac. There at the far end was the archetypal bistro, dimly lit, complete with flowers and pink tablecloths.

  Viv thought of Nerida Clifford, her alibi. This is exactly what the doctor ordered, she told Tom Daunt blithely. She planned to tell her husband the very same thing, and without the slightest qualm.

  After the arrival of the second bottle it wasn’t too much of a stretch to see Bob Mitchum slouching opposite. The eyes, the black hair and heavy sideburns, the ironic air. Not when viewed through half-closed eyes in the candlelight, which minimised discrepancies. And in the glow produced by good wine, which Tom was knocking back with even less restraint than she was.

  Since their views on most things were diametrically opposed, the conversation tended to relapse into a chain of political wrangles. Cynicism was the Rev’s position of choice – rather, Viv imagined, as it might have been that of the actor he resembled. The clerical conference was off-limits. For God’s sake! He’d rather talk about government policy on the disabled or the worried well. This jokey remark made an impression. Viv memorised it for later.

  In spite of her attempts to deflect it, the subject of his disastrous marriage wouldn’t go away. While she could imagine tunnel-vision being of value in some occupations, such as finding the cure for a flesh-eating disease, she told him, in a dinner situation it was less appealing. He was unhealthily obsessed. He needed to get a life.

  ‘What do you think this is?’ he demanded. ‘It’s called getting out more. It’s just bloody hard to get away from the insidious effect of the wretched woman. Permeates everything.’

  ‘It can’t be all her though, can it?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course it damn well can,’ he said. Quite cheerfully, she thought.

  He made it clear he didn’t want to answer questions about the priesthood. He couldn’t remember what misguided whim made him choose the ministry in the first place. The suggestion that he’d had a vocation met with an incredulous curl of the lip. So, would he go so far as to describe himself as an unbeliever, then?

  ‘What do you think? They’re all covert atheists. Well, you’d have to be, wouldn’t you? They just sweep it under the carpet. Or under the clerical skirt.’

  Well then, why had he entered the priesthood in the first place? In a word.

  ‘You want one word? Too easy. Sinecure,’ he said succinctly.

  Viv, whose mind was buzzing in spite of a prodigious intake of alcohol, was now convinced that the Rev component of the Daunt persona was fraudulent. She decided to save this intriguing subject for breakfast. In the back of her mind, and becoming more insistent by the minute, were two questions. Did she want the fling to commence at the end of the evening? And was its commencement even feasible? This became even more relevant after the digestifs arrived. A double measure of Armagnac for him, a single Amaretto for her.

  In the event, the first question was settled without an operative word being spoken. A quick but decisive kiss outside the restaurant in the chill of a gathering mist, and a walk (in a relatively straight line) back to the apartment, arm in arm (Paris was delectable, Geoff). Once inside the drawing room they tore off their clothes in the dark, leaving them where they fell, and headed straight for the bedroom Tom had already staked out.

  When they had been in bed naked for a few minutes, Viv’s earlier doubts as to feasibility were shown to be well founded. Wouldn’t you know, she imagined telling her confidantes. She expected that she might feel at liberty to disclose someth
ing along these lines.

  The situation was made more awkward, potentially, by the fact that she and Tom Daunt did not know each other very well. And apart from a degree of physical attraction, which she regarded as rather irrational, she could think of nothing they had in common. We didn’t really get on at all was the sum total of what she would later feel able to disclose.

  Humour, normally an invaluable resource, seemed out of reach. It was difficult to gauge what might be an appropriate level at such a critical moment. Viv did her best to smooth things over.

  ‘It’s entirely understandable, Tom,’ she murmured. ‘You must be sozzled. I know I am. I’m completely legless, quite frankly. But it couldn’t matter less – please don’t give it another thought. We can have another go in the morning.’ Or try something else, she would have liked to say, if she’d known him better.

  He stopped, she felt, just short of saying shut the fuck up, Pollyanna. ‘Don’t bang on about it, Beatrice, for Christ’s sake. I’ve got the bugger’s measure.’

  A rather mystifying phrase, until she grasped what the measure might be. He swung his legs out of bed and started fumbling around on the floor on his hands and knees. Various items were tossed out of the hold-all, accompanied by some exasperated swearing. Then she heard the crackle of foil. Was he removing something from his wash bag? He went into the bathroom. She heard a tap running.

  ‘Thirty minutes at the outside,’ he said, returning. ‘We can chill out and talk among ourselves.’

  ‘Or quarrel and bicker. Anything I can do to …’

  ‘No, it’ll do it itself. Do you mind if I smoke?’

  ‘I think I do mind,’ she said. It might distract him from keeping her awake and on the ball. But the next thirty minutes did not drag. Whatever his shortcomings, the Rev was a man who understood about outcomes needing to be constructed from the ground up. And alcohol, happily, hadn’t dulled his grip on the knowledge, or grasp of the process. Although the words grip and grasp were too …

  A pleasant momentum was being reached when Viv found herself jerked back into the previous moment by a hard poke in the side. Tom gave a satisfied grunt.

  ‘Shall we?’ he said.

  But just as the next stage had been smoothly effected it came to an abrupt halt as he pronounced very clearly in her ear, ‘Holy shit!’ Then followed it up with ‘Fucking hell!’ Viv found this only slightly puzzling, if unnecessarily loud, as her ear was ringing. But then she realised that he had collapsed onto her with a long, expelled breath. Not only that, he appeared to be paralysed.

  Agitated thoughts raced through her mind. Maybe the tablet was too strong, or it interacted badly with alcohol? Or he had taken the wrong one in the dark? They’d eaten nuts at the bar – perhaps it was a peanut allergy. Did he have an epipen with him? It couldn’t be botulism, could it – they had chosen different dishes and there were forms that were almost instantaneously fatal.

  Could it be that he had expired on the job, before the job was fully underway? This did happen, you heard, and mainly to men. If so, how on earth would she deal with it? She couldn’t reach anything. Worse still, she couldn’t move. Did the in-laws employ a cleaner? If not, they mightn’t be found for days.

  At that precise moment she absorbed the existence of voices from the living room. One guttural, the other higher pitched. In the moment that followed Tom had a resurgence of energy. He withdrew, rolled off smartly and dragged the sheet up over their heads, causing the continental quilt to slide off the bed. Viv, who thought she had never been so relieved in her life, was moved to admire his sangfroid.

  Just then the overhead light in their room snapped on and she heard two people barge into the room. Beside her, Tom whispered, ‘Don’t move. And don’t say a bloody thing.’

  ‘Sabrina? Tim?’ A woman’s voice, strongly accented but alarmingly distinct. Viv, aware she was not quite all there, was confused.

  Tom spoke up from under the sheet in a commendably normal voice: ‘Gunther and Lorelei. Shouldn’t you be cruising in the Balearics?’

  Two raised, excitable voices replied at once. Food-poisoning had broken out and the cruise had been aborted. ‘Schrecklich!’ The woman again, in an altered tone: ‘Sabrina?’

  The sheet had come adrift at the other end, exposing Viv’s feet and shins. She heard a fevered exchange in German. They’ve seen my toes with the twilight violet nail polish. Not Sabrina’s colour. Not her elegant toes. Not her youthful ankles.

  She froze as the sheet was eased down a little way to expose her face. Both visitors reacted with shocked exclamations. The thickset, bald man, who must be Gunther, let out a loud profanity Viv identified from her schoolgirl German.

  The woman Lorelei, also portly and wearing an expensive full-length fur coat, bore down on her, quivering with indignation. Discarded lingerie – black, lacy – dangled from a forefinger. Gunther was brandishing other incriminating articles. The framed photo of his daughter that had been turned to the wall. His son-in-law’s underpants.

  His eyes bulged as they fell on the priestly shirt and collar on the back of the chair. ‘Der Bruder!’ he hissed at Lorelei. ‘Der Zwillingsbruder! Tom? Is you? You are here?’

  Lorelei cried, ‘Where iss your wife?’ Her husband seized the clerical garb and dumped it on the bed. ‘Verzieh dich! Get out! You – out!’ Viv took this to mean her. She didn’t move. She was unwilling to expose her nudity to the gaze of hostile others. Besides, she was feeling some solidarity with Tom.

  His in-laws still couldn’t see his face. This, together with the sound of his own shouting, seemed to galvanise Gunther. He grabbed the edge of the sheet in both hands. ‘And you get off! Sofort! Gleich!’ A brief tug-of-war ensued. His wife helped out by snatching the other corner.

  Suddenly Lorelei gasped and uttered a small scream, staggering backwards. Viv also jumped. The sheet had come away, exposing their two bodies – butt naked to the sky, as Joy would say. And more pertinently, a vertiginous erection.

  Viv would retain near-total recall of this excruciating happening. At first it was one of those rare moments, an unlikely example of bipartisanship – of team spirit, she might almost have said – when she and Lorelei, two otherwise irreconcilable women, were as one. Both were transfixed, even if only for a split-second. It was as if neither had ever set eyes on an erect penis before.

  But the moment of female solidarity dissolved in a flash. Gunther, who Viv judged to be the same age as his son-in-law, or possibly younger, and whose attitude to the engorged member was less nuanced, let out an animalistic growl. He lunged forward, right hand outstretched like a grappling hook.

  Tom had spun side-on with his knees up. He had no chance of taking evasive action. Viv reacted with an inarticulate noise of empathy as his fine head of hair detached from its moorings and came away in his father-in-law’s outraged claw. He let out a grunt of pain. The success of this manoeuvre (something, Viv guessed, that Gunther might have longed to do for the duration of his daughter’s marriage) caused him to lose his balance and topple forward.

  He landed heavily between the two of them, his substantial bulk cannoning into Viv and temporarily incapacitating her companion. Viv recoiled as the luxuriant hairpiece flew out of his hand and smacked her (surprisingly sharply, given the short distance travelled) in the left eye.

  She was still processing this when she recoiled a second time. It dawned on her that her face was being slapped. This had never happened before, although she’d seen it happen countless times in the movies, or on TV. She was being slapped by Tom’s mother-in-law, an enraged, muscular woman who was a good decade younger than her.

  Viv’s stomach heaved. It was partly the emotional toll of successive physical impacts, partly the wine, and it was not to be ignored. Her body was on display; she’d been hit by a flying toupee and slapped; she felt impervious to any further shame. She clambered out of bed as rapidly as possible and brushed past Lorelei’s furry coat, feeling its owner recoil from her in turn.

  At
least I can still say I’ve never been spat on, she thought as she proceeded, left eye watering, to vomit up the better part of the evening’s excellent dinner. In a short space of time the rest would be disgorged. There wasn’t much point at this juncture, but she grabbed two towels to cover herself.

  Tom’s cock knocked into her as they collided in the entrance to the narrow bathroom. He groaned. ‘Get out of the bloody way, Beatrice!’ He looks quite different with almost no hair on top, Viv thought distractedly, even though the rugged sideburns are intact. She heard him lock himself inside.

  While she would be able to recall this blood-curdling sequence in its entirety (and in unwanted clarity of detail), the minutes that immediately ensued were more like a bad dream. The kind of nasty, nightmarish episode in which you are naked in the company of two expensively dressed people who have an exceptionally low opinion of you, and are not troubling to hide it.

  Tom still hadn’t emerged from the bathroom when she stumbled out of the apartment into the street. And with a mixture of luck and desperation she must have managed to locate the small hotel where she and Geoff had stayed, because she woke up in one of their rooms next morning.

  Not that she’d slept much. A sick headache, nausea and sundry aches and pains saw to that. In the long reaches of the night she felt her subconscious might be trying to say something. If nothing is at stake, she thought it was trying to say, what exactly is the point?

  Before leaving the hotel the next morning she plastered make-up on her injuries. Her face was swollen. She had a black eye and some light bruising on the bridge of the nose. It must be whiplash. She could just make out the shadow of a palm print on her right cheek.

  Geoff is out playing croquet when she arrives home. Eliza has joined the club as a beginner. When they come in they are keen to hear all about Paris. ‘How was it?’ Eliza asks. She looks fresh-faced and pretty. Paris sounds so divine. She’s simply busting to go.

  Both women glance at Geoff, who is filling the jug. ‘Oh, Paris was delectable,’ says Viv coolly. Her face feels stiff and sore. Geoff thought she was staying for two nights – was Nerida called back for an emergency? This has happened before.