* * *
Elizabeth had tried to make her office as homelike as possible, with plants and armchairs and a fridge. Often she felt more of a therapist or a nanny than an editor: authors wanted drinks and encouragement and a listening ear. Some, like Suzy, became insecure and aggressive at the very mention of alterations, and had to be pacified.
Suzy’s first novel had done pretty well. Respectable hardcover sales, encouraging reviews, a good paperback deal. Her third novel would probably do even better. Meanwhile, they were stuck with her second. Suzy, humble and grateful at first, now had the bit between her teeth: she was flushed with success and had acquired an agent and an inflated sense of her own value. About her potential, Elizabeth thought, she was probably correct, but about this particular novel she was definitely wrong: it was at once too derivative in style and too personal in content and it had been written too fast. It should be put in a drawer for two or three years and then reworked, not thrown away, because there were some good things in it. But if they didn’t publish it, Suzy and her agent would take it elsewhere. It would do badly wherever they took it, but Elizabeth would have lost Suzy for ever.
A familiar dilemma, long ago resolved. She had tried suggesting tactfully to Suzy that she might like to publish her third, as yet unfinished, novel before this second one because it would give her more time to make vital cuts and tighten the whole thing up, but Suzy had been outraged and Elizabeth had needed all her diplomacy and several lunches to retrieve the situation. Now she had settled for getting Suzy to make the minimal changes that she would accept as fast as possible.
‘I think you’ve done a fantastic job,’ she said.
Suzy stared at her with suspicion. ‘You don’t like it.’
‘Come on, Suzy, you know me better than that. I’m really pleased. You’ve made it much tighter. All those cuts we discussed have really worked.’
This was true, up to a point. Elizabeth’s suggestions, in so far as Suzy would accept them, had improved the novel greatly.
‘There’s a “but” coming,’ said Suzy, who though stubborn was not insensitive.
‘Only a tiny one,’ said Elizabeth, trying to think how she would proceed if she were dealing with Felix. He was her yardstick, beloved and familiar, the person she knew and loved best in the world, and she was also his editor. She knew it was possible to be involved and detached at the same time.
‘You see?’ said Suzy with grim satisfaction. ‘I knew it.’
‘Now don’t get excited. It’s really very small.’ Elizabeth put her finger and thumb almost together. ‘Maybe about that big.’
Suzy closed her eyes defensively. Elizabeth seized the moment.
‘It’s just when she’s in hospital having the baby and she finds out her husband’s been screwing her best friend. Don’t you think maybe – just maybe – she ought to have a scene with him about it?’
Suzy opened her eyes wide. ‘But she’s so afraid of losing him,’ she said very fast, looking at Elizabeth as if she were an idiot.
‘Yes, I know. Only—’
‘And it was the sixties. You weren’t supposed to get jealous in the sixties.’
‘Yes, I do remember that,’ Elizabeth said. ‘But even so, it’s such a big thing—’ She thought if it were Helen, knowing that Helen would never do such a thing, knowing that she was safe.
‘And she’s feeling very vulnerable. Having just given birth and all that.’
‘Quite. All the same, we don’t want the reader to think she’s a wimp.’
Suzy looked shocked. Elizabeth wondered how far the novel was autobiographical. As far as she knew Suzy had a perfectly nice husband and two teenage sons and lived in Woking, but she had been married twenty years and the husband might be finding her sudden success hard to take. When Suzy came up to town to see Elizabeth she wore peculiar make-up and tied her hair on top of her head with what looked like, but could not possibly be, a pair of black fishnet tights.
Elizabeth said, ‘Suzy, we did talk about this and you said you’d look at it.’
‘I did, but…’ She paused and Elizabeth could see her thinking so hard she almost put her thumb in her mouth. She suddenly saw Suzy as an endearing child. ‘Maybe she could have a scene with her best friend.’
‘It’s her husband she needs to have a scene with.’ Perhaps Helen was not her best friend, but what else could she be? Elizabeth knew many women, but Helen was the one she liked and trusted most. She didn’t think she was Helen’s best friend, however, and maybe it had to be mutual. She didn’t think Helen needed friends at all, never mind best ones.
‘You don’t think it would make her too assertive?’ Suzy said.
‘I think it would make her very human.’
Suzy considered. Elizabeth felt like a paediatrician trying to get a mother’s consent to a vital operation. ‘You’re not saying you won’t publish it, are you? If I don’t change it.’ Please don’t tell me my child is going to die. Don’t make me go to another hospital.
‘Heavens no. We all love it. This is a tiny change. I’d just like it to be as good as it possibly can. If she has a scene with her husband, it would make it that much stronger.’ And yet why should Suzy’s heroine be stronger than she was herself?
Was she trying to get things done that she couldn’t do? ‘Don’t you feel she should express some of her anger? Even if it doesn’t work.’
‘Ah, it doesn’t have to work,’ said Suzy. ‘That’s something.’
‘Just a short scene,’ Elizabeth pleaded. ‘Just a little burst of anger to make her human.’
‘Maybe she could write him a letter,’ said Suzy. ‘And then not send it.’
Elizabeth sank back into her chair and lit a cigarette. She was beginning to wonder anxiously how angry she really was with Felix. Perhaps her professional judgment was impaired.
‘She’s your character, Suzy,’ she said.
Suzy’s eyes narrowed under the shiny black bow. ‘You don’t like her, do you?’
* * *
At first Elizabeth didn’t entirely believe Felix meant what he said, or else she thought he would change his mind. After all, other people did. She had friends who had sworn they would never have children and after a few years had them, some on purpose, some by mistake. Most of them seemed delighted. In the same way she hoped that he might turn out to be faithful, despite his declared intention not to be.
At first, too, she was so enraptured by his physical presence, the luxury of having him all to herself, to fall asleep with and wake up with, to look at and touch at random, to cook for, to chat to, to make love with whenever they felt like it, which was often in those early days, that it was easy to push the longing for children to the back of her mind. But time was against her: if she were to do it at all, it would be wise to start before she was forty.
Casual references did not do the trick, nor did pregnant friends. Hints resolutely dropped were not picked up. She had to raise the subject directly, by which time she was tense and anxious and perhaps did not choose the right moment, or perhaps there could never be a right moment for something he did not want to discuss at all.
‘But darling,’ he said, sounding merely surprised, not annoyed or put out, ‘I thought we settled all that.’
‘You really meant it?’ she said, feeling sad and angry and foolish.
‘Yes, of course. I wouldn’t have said it otherwise. It was an important conversation.’
He was planning a Tony Blythe novel at the time and she had the feeling that his attention was wandering.
‘I suppose I thought you might change your mind,’ she said.
‘I don’t want to share you with anyone,’ he said.
She supposed that was meant to be flattering. ‘Not even your own child?’
‘Certainly not. Just think how jealous I’d be.’
‘But I’m not supposed to be jealous if you have other women.’
‘When, darling,’ he said gently. ‘And I said you weren’t supposed to know
. I’ll always be discreet but I can’t control what you feel.’
Now she felt like the boy in Kidnapped, suddenly seeing the broken staircase lit by jagged lightning. ‘You mean it’s already happened?’
‘Are you really asking me that? Because I’m not going to lie to you.’
She thought about it and went away, screamed and broke things. He waited until she was calm with exhaustion, then he came after her and held her while she cried.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘If you can have other women, why can’t I have children?’
‘Because that was the deal,’ he explained gently. ‘And you agreed to it. I don’t like children but I do like sex with other women.’
So it was her fault for making a dishonest bargain. ‘And you don’t care how much you hurt me?’
‘Don’t be silly. I love you. But I’m a very selfish person and you knew that before you married me. Why d’you expect me to change?’
He kissed her. He seemed excited by her tears and to her own surprise she found that she was too. They made love. Life went on the same.
They had been married then about three years. Contraception was left to her and she had tried everything. It would be easy for her to forget the cap, or come off the pill, or have the coil removed. But what if he refused to accept it? What if he made her have an abortion, or if she wouldn’t, what if he left her? No more Felix smelling warm and furry in bed. No more Felix making her laugh at breakfast or holding her hand in the street. How could a baby make up for losing Felix? She could see all around her how hard it was for women of her age to find new men. Unthinkable to be a single parent, an object of pity.
Friends said he would probably come round if it happened, get used to the idea, even be pleased, if not with the pregnancy then with the reality of the baby, and if not at first then as it grew up and learned to talk, became interesting. Each time they spoke about it, they made it sound as if Felix would need more and more time to adapt. Perhaps never, said the voice in her head. They didn’t know him as she did, however often they had sat at his dining-table. Some of them even said he was a monster, though charming, of course. She stopped talking to those friends.
Once she was over forty she tried to tell herself that a baby now might be deformed. She didn’t really believe it but it helped a bit. The longing faded slowly as she grew older, though it also flared up with sudden spurts of panic. Each period became a chance missed, and eventually one would be her last. She found herself looking curiously at the blood that might have been a child. Then she developed fibroids, as if her womb were determined to grow something, and realised the decision had been made for her. She tested the words ‘too late’ when she was alone and found them bitter.
Felix’s women came and went. She never had any actual proof but she felt their stealthy presence on the edges of her life. Occasionally she wondered if they ever got pregnant. It hurt to share him with others, but she told herself they were fewer than she imagined. She tried to think of them as a pastime, a diversion, like a game of bridge or squash, a visit to a health club. Gradually she began to believe he would never leave her, because he never did. When the pain became too great to bear she hit upon the theory that he didn’t want her to have a baby in case she died in childbirth, like his mother. Her life was too precious to risk. Felix said he had no idea if there was any truth in this, but it made her feel a little better. Nothing made her love him any less, at all events, and that, she thought, was the main thing, when all was said and done.
* * *
Told F. today. It was awful – not a bit the way I’d imagined. He looked really scared and angry and sort of cornered, as if I'd done it on purpose to trap him. I’ve never seen him look like that before. It changed his face completely. I felt terrible, very cold and sick. It was ages before he hugged me – too late, really. I’m so afraid. I think I’m going to be alone with the whole thing. It’s my problem, not ours. God. What am I going to do ?
He didn’t believe me at first. Went on about the pill being 100 per cent safe and how could I have made a mistake? I explained about switching handbags but he looked at me as if I was stupid and he really despised me. Then he got up and walked round the room a bit, saying Christ and shit and was I sure because those tests could be wrong and I ought to see a doctor. I said of course I would but I knew I was right because I’d missed two periods and done the test twice and anyway I felt peculiar so I just knew.
Then he sat down rather suddenly and put his head in his hands. He looked old and tired – quite different. Haggard almost. It was a shock. I got us both drinks. I felt sorry for him but more sorry for me. I could see him making a big effort. He said of course it would be wonderful, too good to be true after all these years, but had I thought how it would change my life, my whole future was at stake, and besides we couldn’t do it in secret, Mum and Richard would have to know, and had I thought about Elizabeth. How could we do a thing like that to her, it would hurt her so much, particularly at her age, menopausal women are so vulnerable.
I just listened. I don’t think I’d ever realised before how fond he is of Elizabeth. He hugged me again and said didn’t I agree, when we really thought about it, we simply couldn’t go ahead, there were too many reasons not to, although of course it was terribly tempting, like a gift from the gods. Only we had to be rational.
I don’t want to be rational. I’m not sure I can be. I’m frightened. I want Felix to put his arms round me and say he loves me and I can have the baby and he’ll leave Elizabeth and we’ll be together. I didn’t know I felt like that till this happened. I was just happy and living a day at a time, not really thinking at all, certainly not making plans. And he never talked about the future either. I should have realised that was a bad sign.
Now I think he’s saying I ought to have an abortion, though he hasn’t used the word yet. I’m not sure I can do that. I want to talk to Mum but I’m scared. She’ll be so angry. She’ll know what to do all right, but once I tell her she’ll take over and whatever she wants will happen and she’ll convince me she’s right. If Felix was on my side he could stand up to her for me. But all he seems to care about is Elizabeth not finding out. Of course I don’t want to hurt her, she’s so nice, but I don’t see it would be the end of the world.
* * *
When he got home Elizabeth was in evening dress – yet another joke that fate had up its sleeve. He said, ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry,’ as he remembered, and thought for at least a few seconds that life would really be much simpler if he could just drop dead on the spot. Then everyone would be sorry and he wouldn’t have to deal with anything.
‘Oh, what the hell,’ she said, clearly having had more than one drink. ‘I don’t care if I never see Traviata again. You were the one who couldn’t live without going to see that fat cow shrieking her head off. I’m only the one who got the tickets and they cost an arm and a leg.’
Felix suddenly understood why children had tantrums. He wanted to scream and cry and stamp his feet. It was all too much: just when he most needed Elizabeth to comfort him in the worst crisis of his life, not only could he not tell her about it, but he would have to comfort her for something as trivial as being late for the opera.
‘I’ll go and change now,’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘I’ll be very quick. We can still make it.’
‘Christ, what does it matter?’ she yelled, as if she knew everything. ‘I’ll put up with anything, won’t I?’ And she hurled her empty glass against the wall.
Felix was startled, admiring the extravagance of the gesture and envying her freedom to make it, while he was obliged to behave well. His brain was racing: useless to regret the fact that home could not be a refuge tonight. Perhaps there was yet a way that the situation might be turned to his advantage. At least at Covent Garden he would be able to sit quietly and think and let the music wash over him. It might be easier than an evening at home, being asked if he was all right, being told he was rather quiet. But he still needed an
excuse to cover both his lateness and whatever mood he might be in over dinner.
He went over to Elizabeth and put his arm round her; that usually worked. She pushed him away angrily, but he persisted and after a while she gave in: he could feel her body relax into a kind of grateful passivity. It was too soon for a more positive response.
He said, ‘Darling, I’m sorry I forgot but I’ve had a perfectly awful day.’
‘Well, so have I.’ She sounded sulky. ‘You might think about me for a change. It wouldn’t kill you.’
Now he had to come up with something good.
‘I’ve been sitting in the office for hours just trying to decide what to do. I lost all sense of time. The fact is…’ and he paused for a moment. ‘I don’t know how to tell you this but I think the book is so bad I’ll have to scrap it and start again.’
Elizabeth looked suitably shocked at the magnitude of this disaster. Nothing less would have done; he only hoped it would not jinx his work. He kissed her and she kissed him back and hugged him tight. She felt very different from Sally.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and hear that fat cow sing.’
* * *
Sally said finally, ‘Look, Mum, you’re going to hate this and I’m sorry – only the thing is, I think I’m pregnant.’
Helen couldn’t have been more shocked if Sally had suddenly stuck a knife in her. This was the impossible and it was happening. She had taken out elaborate insurance against this moment since the day Sally was born: bringing her up frankly, openly; telling her everything but waiting for her to ask; giving her love and information, security and freedom. She had been the classic liberal enlightened parent and this was her reward. She simply couldn’t believe that they had been overtaken by something so carelessly primitive, so curiously old-fashioned, so fatally stupid.
A Sense of Guilt Page 15
