Doctor's Wife

by Brian Moore

  “Shall we start back ourselves?” she asked. “Let’s go to your hotel today.”

  “Okay. But I guess we’d better check at the Welcome on the way.”

  She looked at him. “Have you been worrying all day about a message?”

  “Sort of. Haven’t you?”

  “No. I’ve stopped.” She kissed his cheek. “It’s easier that way.”

  An hour later, having walked back across the peninsula, they came along the quay at Villefranche toward the entrance of the Welcome. “Wait here,” she said. “I won’t take a minute.”

  In the lobby, the desk clerk was talking on the telephone. She looked at her pigeonhole, but there were no messages in it.

  “Anything for me? Room 450?”

  “No, Madame.”

  “No telephone call?”

  “No, Madame.”

  She went out of the hotel and waved in a victory sign.

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go to my room and change.”

  “You mean go to bed,” she said. They laughed.

  •

  At five, somewhere in the narrow streets behind Les Terrasses, a church bell tolled the hour. Lying in the deep declivity of his single bed, knowing he was asleep, she moved slightly, turning to face the window and the tulle curtains floating outward in the evening sun. I am the one who must make the choices: he knows that. That’s why he gets angry and talks about never being with a married person before.

  She lay, her eyes open. The church bell tolled the half hour. I should get up and wash my hair. I’ll set it, then iron the chiffon dress I’m wearing tonight. We’ll go into Nice and have dinner. I’ll get up now and leave him a note.

  Decided, she slipped out of the bed. His hand caught her wrist. “Where are you going?”

  “To the Welcome, to wash my hair.”

  “Wash it here.”

  “Can’t. Besides, I want to change.”

  “Come back to bed.”

  “No. I’ll see you at seven. Let’s go to Nice for dinner.”

  “Why Nice? What is this, a farewell dinner? Our last night?”

  “It’s not our last night,” she said.

  At the Welcome the proprietress greeted her with the usual question about dinner and, on hearing she would not be dining in the hotel, again brought up the matter of pension.

  “I know. Just bill me for pension. That’s all right.”

  “Bien, Madame. Comme vous voulez.”

  Upstairs in her room, the neat bed reproached her absence. Unused room, uneaten meals, wasted money. She took out the chiffon dress and laid it full-length, like a person, on the bed. You be my substitute. She matched shoes to it, deciding on her blue sandals, then took a shower and washed and dried her hair. Later, she sat at the mirror, dressed, making up her face. He dreams me and I dream him, we dream each other as perfect. And, mirror, never my friend, you can’t deny that suntan, the look in those eyes. She smiled at the mirror. This chiffon dress is pretty. I look pretty. This is grace, the state of grace.

  •

  At a quarter to seven, humming to herself, swinging her evening bag up and down in an unladylike manner, she went along the corridor to the lift, where two older women, waiting, watched her jaunty approach, then exchanged looks as though she were drunk. She smiled at them as they all got into the lift and kept on smiling until, grudgingly, they nodded to her. “Good evening,” she said. “Lovely day, wasn’t it?” and, uneasily, they agreed. On the ground floor, smiling, humming, swinging her purse, she went across the lobby and handed her key to the clerk. As she went to go out of the hotel door, the proprietress came from her little office holding a gray envelope. “Ce télégramme vient d’arriver, Madame. J’ai téléphoné à votre chambre toute à l’heure, mais vous étiez en train de descendre.”

  “Merci, Madame.” She took the envelope, stuffed it in her handbag, and went outside. Parked cars lined the pavement and jammed the center of the little square, so that, crossing to the opposite side, she had to dodge around, as in a parking lot. She did not open her bag until she reached the flight of steps which went up in the direction of Les Terrasses, then slashed the envelope flap with her fingernail and saw the typewritten message on the telegram form.

  RANG TWICE BUT NO ANSWER.

  ARRIVE A. F. FLIGHT 42 SUNDAY

  AFTERNOON. LOVE KEVIN

  After reading it twice, she put it back in her bag and started up the staircase slowly, as though distracted. Halfway up the steps she stopped, turned around, and came down in a run, hurrying among the parked vehicles in the square, re-entering the Welcome, where, in rapid French, she ordered a call to be placed to her home number in Belfast. She said she would take the call in her room, and as she unlocked her room door on the fourth floor, the phone was already ringing. She sat on the bed, listening as the English exchange cleared the call through.

  “Double-four-one-double-five,” Danny’s voice said.

  “Hold on, please. Overseas call for you. Go ahead, caller.”

  “Danny?”

  “Mum, is that you? How are you? How’s the weather?”

  “Fine. How are you? Are you eating vegetables the way you promised?”

  “Yes,” he said, irritated. “Do you want to speak to Dad?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Well, he’s out.”

  “Where?”

  “He went on a call. He said he’d be back very soon.”

  “Have you had your supper?”

  “Not yet. I’m waiting for Dad.”

  “Well, listen, Danny, will you ask your father to ring me here at the Hotel Welcome—the Hotel Welcome—the minute he comes in. Tell him it’s important.”

  “The Welcome. Does he have the number?”

  “Yes. Are you playing rugby this week?”

  “We have a game on Tuesday with the Inst. team.”

  “How’s Neil?”

  “Oh, fine. His father’s giving him a ten-speed for his birthday.”

  “Lucky him. Well, don’t forget to ask Daddy to ring. I’ll be waiting here for his call.”

  “Yes, okay. Hey, can you hold on a minute, Mum?”

  “Danny, this is a trunk call.”

  “But, Mum, I heard a car.”

  “All right, go and look.”

  She waited. She shivered suddenly, as though she had a chill. She heard Danny’s footsteps running in the hall as he went to the back of the house to see if his father’s car had come into the driveway. She heard voices, Kevin, it must be; yes, it was. His voice asked, “Is she still on the phone?”

  She felt herself begin to tremble. There was a loud sound as Kevin picked up the receiver, pulling it by its cord along the polished black wood of the monk’s bench in the front hall.

  “Hello?”

  “Kevin?”

  “Sheila, how are you? Did you get my telegram?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “I’ve been trying to reach you on the phone, I rang at nine and then later around four.”

  “I was at the beach,” she said.

  “Yes, that’s what I guessed, that’s why I wired. What’s up? Danny said it’s urgent.”

  “Yes, in a way. Listen, do you really want to come on this holiday? Tell me the truth, now.”

  “Well, everything’s fixed up. McSherry’s standing in for me.”

  “Kevin, you didn’t answer me. Do you want to come or would you rather stay at home until I get back?”

  “No, I’ll come.”

  “Because, listen,” she said, and as she began to say it, she heard the tremor in her voice and wondered if he heard it, too. “I just wanted to say that if you’d rather not come, it doesn’t matter to me. I mean, I’ve been half thinking if you don’t come, I’ll go back up to Paris for the rest of my holiday and pal around with Peg. I’d be quite happy doing that. Honestly.”

  “You mean you don’t care if I come or not?” he said, enunciating the sen
tence very precisely.

  “Look, it’s not that, it’s just that I know how busy you are. And I think it’s silly your coming now, unless you really want to.”

  “But it’s all arranged. I’d feel like a fool, canceling it now.”

  Then she knew. He didn’t know what to say to Mc-Sherry, after asking for the favor. “Listen,” she said. “You could tell McSherry I’m going to Paris and that I want to shop, and that you think you’ll wait and have your holiday later on this summer in Connemara. Listen, he’ll be delighted, won’t he?”

  Silence again. In the background she heard Danny call to Mrs. Milligan, “What’s for pudding?”

  “Besides, I really want to go to Paris,” she said. “I was there for only one night. I feel I had no time to see anything.”

  “What about the booking in Villefranche?”

  “Oh, they’re very nice here. There’ll be no trouble. They have a waiting list for the rooms.”

  “Well, this is sudden.”

  “Yes, but I think it makes good sense.”

  “When would you go back to Paris?”

  “Oh, tomorrow, or Monday at the latest. I can bunk in with Peg. Listen, why don’t we do it this way?”

  “Hmm,” he said. “I suppose I could call McSherry tonight. He was going to do an appendectomy for me tomorrow at nine. All right, then, if that’s what you want.”

  “Listen, Kevin, I was scared to ask you, but really, I’d rather be in Paris than here. I’d like to see the shops. And that’s not your cup of tea, is it?”

  “No. And your pal Peg Conway isn’t my cup of tea either, come to think of it. By the way, who’s the boy friend at the moment?”

  She felt herself tremble. And then realized what he meant. “Oh, a Yugoslav,” she said.

  “God help us.”

  “So, it’s settled, then. I’ll go to Paris and you hold the fort at home.”

  “Right. But one thing. Next year, I don’t want to hear any old guff about how we’ve got to go to the South of France because I missed it this year. Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “Well,” he said, and laughed. “When I think of the knock-down-drag-out rows you staged to get me to France this year.”

  “I know.”

  “Okay, then, I’ll cancel my flight. And don’t be spending a whole lot of money in Paris, do you hear?”

  “I won’t.”

  “Oh, by the way, what about money? What about the bill there? Do you have enough?”

  “Yes. I’m all right.”

  “Maybe I’d better wire some money to Paris. Ill send it to Peg’s address.”

  “No, no, I’ll be all right,” she said. Now it seemed awful to take his money.

  “No, you won’t. How are you going to shop?”

  “I have my Barclaycard.”

  “I’ll send you a hundred quid, just in case.”

  “No, listen, Kevin. I have money of my own, Kitty’s legacy. Owen will advance me some money on my dividends. I’d rather do that.”

  “Why?”

  And suddenly she was afraid. She mustn’t make him suspicious. “Oh, all right then, send me a hundred pounds and I’ll pay it back to you later, out of my dividends.”

  “Okay.”

  “Well, good night.”

  “Good night, Shee. And listen.”

  “Yes?”

  “I love you.”

  Why had he said that? He almost never said it any more. She felt sick.

  “I’ll ring off,” he said. “I hear the sounds of a Mrs. Milligan supper being served. Good night, Shee.”

  “Good night, Kevin.”

  “Ring me from Paris.”

  “I will.”

  When she went back to Les Terrasses, Tom was still asleep. She had to knock on his door to wake him.

  “What time is it?”

  “Ten past seven.”

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry. I’ll hurry.”

  “There’s no hurry,” she said and sat in the chair by the window, watching as he stripped off the blue and white French sailor shirt he’d bought yesterday, stepped out of his shorts, and went into the tin shower. She looked at his narrow hips and waist, his long muscular legs, his hands with their attractive backing of black hair. She forgot what she had been going to say to him. As he turned the shower on, she stared at his penis. The shower was feeble and quickly ran cold, and he hopped out with a yelp. She got the towel and went to him. “Let me dry you off.”

  “Okay.”

  He stood, obedient, as she began to towel his chest and belly. For a moment, she thought of Danny, years ago, before he’d become too shy to let her dry him off. She found a second small towel and Tom used it to dry his hair as she toweled his back. And then, wearing her good chiffon, her hair done, her face made up to go out, she threw the towel aside and pulled his still-damp body against hers. “I love you,” she said. “I love you, do you know that?”

  “I love you.”

  After a moment, he released her. “I suppose if we’re going to some big-deal place in Nice, I’d better put on a shirt and tie.”

  “Maybe you don’t want to go all the way into Nice. We can eat here.”

  “Either way,” he said. “Anyway, let’s not make plans until you get that phone call.”

  She went to her purse and took out the telegram. “I got this.”

  “When?”

  “Just before I came over here.”

  He read the telegram. “Sunday. That’s tomorrow.”

  “Yes.”

  She saw the skin grow taut over his cheeks. “What do you want to do, Sheila?”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Me?” He grinned, throwing his head up in that startled way he had. “If it’s up to me, let’s pack our bags and get the hell out of here tonight.”

  “And then what?”

  He stared at her, as though he did not understand the question.

  “I mean, we can’t just walk out on our lives, can we?”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh, Tom, be serious.”

  “I am serious. I’m not walking out on anything. You are. Or are you going to go back to him?”

  She did not answer.

  He waited, then said, “Okay, it’s up to you. But if you decide not to go back to him, we can go up to Paris, get you a visa, and then go on to the States. We could be there in a couple of weeks.”

  “But I’d still be married.”

  “We’ll get you a divorce. A Haitian divorce, it’s easy. Then, if you want to, you can marry me.”

  “So you’re proposing to me?” She laughed, it was relief, it was laughter that felt to her like tears. “You’ve known me only five days and you want to get married.”

  “I’m reckless,” he said, smiling.

  “It’s all right, you don’t have to plan anything so drastic. Kevin’s not coming.”

  “He’s not?”

  “No. When I got this telegram I phoned him and told him I wanted to go to Paris and do some shopping. He never wanted to come here, anyway. So he’s not coming at all.”

  “But why didn’t you tell me right away?”

  She shrugged.

  “What was it, some sort of test? Did you think I was going to run off?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what you’d do. I’m sorry. I should have told you.”

  He stared at her. His anger died. He put his arms around her. “Listen, it’s great news. But what if he calls you in Paris?”

  “I thought of that, too. We’ll have to go back to Paris. And, oh, God, I told him I’d be staying with Peg.”

  “You’re not going to stay with Peg. We’ll work something out. Let’s stay at a hotel—the Balcons?”

  “Good.”

  “And listen, I mean that about us going to the States. And about getting married.”

  “Don’t you think you’d get tired of me?”

  “No. Never.”

  She turned away. “Let’s not go into Nice t
onight. Let’s just eat here some place.”

  “Mère Germaine’s?”

  “Or the Welcome. I’m paying for all those meals. We might as well eat there.”

  “Okay. When do we go to Paris?”

  “Whenever you like.”

  “Tomorrow, then,” he said. “Let’s go tomorrow.”

  Chapter 8

  • “You will leave tomorrow?” The night desk clerk, seemingly uninterested in his own question, pulled the ledger toward him, his finger tracing the booking, which was written in ink on a ruled page.

  “Yes, I have to go home early. Is that all right?”

  The desk clerk, the same dark young man who had called her to the telephone the other night, nodded impersonally. “Very good, Madame. I will make up the bill tomorrow. Do you leave before lunch?”

  She hesitated, then looked at Tom. He nodded.

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. Do you wish your key now?”

  “No, we’re going to the bar.”

  They went toward the lift. “There you are,” Tom said. “No sweat. You just tell them and they do it.”

  “Still, I’m glad it was him and not Madame,” Mrs. Redden said, and she was glad, it was impossible to explain: here she was deceiving her husband, taking all sorts of risks, and yet she had worried all through dinner about a simple thing like having to tell the hotel she was leaving early, when she had booked for two weeks. Now her mind moved to her next anxiety. “When we go to Paris, I’ll have to tell Peg what’s going on.”

  “I guess you will.”

  “I mean, in case Kevin rings her up to ask if I’m there. I hate telling her about us, though.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ll take care of you.”