An Evil Streak

by An Evil Streak (retail) (epub)

  (‘When I think of that bloody cold bitch at home’ he said once and stopped short, abruptly, as if someone had turned him off by flicking a switch.)

  She laughed at his jokes, she took an interest in his work, she made him laugh, she could cook. (Cook!) She was sexy. She was innocent yet uninhibited. (But that did not tell me what she was like in bed.) And she was so affectionate he felt no one had ever really loved him before, even his mother. Correction: least of all his mother. In a word, she was perfect.

  It did not seem to occur to him that he was indebted to me for finding this paragon and delivering her up to him; or if it did, he did not see fit to say so.

  * * *

  I thought about mirrors. It would mean going back to my old haunts and no doubt prices had gone up, but it was a mirror that the spare room lacked and needed. A mirror would make it come alive for me. I now regretted, of course, getting rid of Oswald’s and Miranda’s mirror, but in those days I had favoured the clean sweep theory of getting over distress and had jettisoned everything that reminded me of them. An expensive method of avoiding heartbreak.

  Then at twelve (and always punctual now) Gemma would arrive and we would all three have an uneasy drink together while they gazed at each other and pretended to be talking to me. At quarter past twelve I would leave, returning at three sometimes to find they had gone, occasionally to join them for tea and more foolish glances. Then they would leave together.

  In short, I was never alone with her. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, when they did not meet, she would ring me up to complain about this deprivation and to explain how wonderful he was, how lucky she was, and how benevolent I was. At least she was appreciative; I must give her that. Almost monotonously so. She went on and on about how grateful they were to me for bringing them together and allowing them the use of my spare room, and whatever would they do without me, but it did not occur to her to do anything/or me in return, such as visiting me alone or talking about something other than David. I had forgotten how selfish lovers are: like children they are interested only in themselves, and they prattle away unselfconsciously, insanely convinced that what is of devouring interest to them must necessarily fascinate everyone else. If it were not insulting it would be comic.

  One week Stephanie was ill and Gemma could not come on Wednesday. She spent half the morning on the telephone to him when he would have been better occupied with the vacuum cleaner. Thursday produced this:

  (7)

  ‘Darling love,

  Thank you a million times for being so sweet about Steffie. Much sweeter than I could be, I’m afraid. We’ve had a miserable afternoon playing games very half-heartedly and the more I looked at my watch thinking of where I should be, the more she went on about her sore throat and her tummy ache and the pain in her head and how she was hot/cold/hungry/sick and wanted a drink of water. I know she felt rotten and I was sorry for her (I think) but at one remove somehow. I mean I know it isn’t serious and she could have managed without me, even Chris said so when he took a look at her this morning and I’m sure Inge could have coped. What’s more, she’d have played games a lot less reluctantly than me! Now of course – now I’ve finally got S. to sleep and I’m racing to catch the post – I feel full of guilt for being such a rotten mother. Poor child, she did feel awful, she was all hot and cold and funny and just wanted me to be there, but I wanted to be somewhere else and there were moments this afternoon when if I’m honest I’ve got to admit I resented her like hell for stopping me – even hated her – I felt she was doing it on purpose – every time I went near the telephone she yelled as if she knew – I swear she’s got wind of something she can’t understand on her radar, just like my bloody mother.

  Darling, please don’t stop loving me because it looks as if I love you more than my own child. Even writing that scares me. It can’t be true, can it?

  Love, love, love and more love,

  Your Gemma’

  February

  She started sounding me out about my holiday. ‘Are you going away as usual?’ – ‘Yes’ – ‘To the same place?’ – ‘Yes’ – ‘How lovely. Lucky you.’

  Each year I spend my birthday in the sun. The Caribbean sun, to be exact. It seems to me, born at such a desolate time of year, the least I can do to console myself, and, with advancing years, almost a medical necessity.

  ‘You’ll come back all brown,’ she said enviously.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And I shall hate you.’

  I smiled. ‘But you’re young and beautiful and happy. You shouldn’t expect to be brown as well. Think how much compensation I need compared to you with all your advantages.’

  There was a silence while she thought about it. I had an idea what she was coming to, but it was amusing to let her get on with it.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, as if it had just occurred to her, ‘what I should really do is ask Chris if I can go with you this time. Then he’d give me the money, David and I could stay at your flat, he could pretend he was on location, I’d give him the money and we could both go under the sunray lamp every day.’

  ‘What a brilliant idea,’ I said. I was impressed by the amount of detail she had gone into, as well as her carefree disposal of Christopher’s money. ‘What a pity it’s not possible.’

  ‘Oh, I was joking,’ she said quickly.

  My instincts told me she had in fact been deadly serious, needing only my encouragement.

  ‘No, I meant the flat won’t be available. Otherwise you could probably get away with it.’

  The silence on the other end of the phone was eloquent with pain and surprise.

  ‘Won’t be available,’ she echoed faintly.

  ‘I’m afraid not. I promised it to a friend – oh, ages ago. Last year. Before you and David ever met.’

  ‘You mean we can’t use it at all?’ Stricken.

  ‘Well, no. Not really. I’m sorry.’

  * * *

  ‘Who is he, this friend?’

  I had expected David to ask questions, so had my answers ready.

  ‘He’s an American academic. This way he can have a cheap vacation, staying in my flat.’

  ‘Funny time of year for an academic vacation.’

  ‘He’s on sabbatical to write his book.’

  David was sharper than I had given him credit for. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Morris Abrahams.’ The answers flowed so readily, I was proud of myself. I began to see the man, neatly bearded but going bald, I thought, an alert Jewish face with dark intelligent eyes and a dry sense of humour. About fifty. His students liked him. He deserved to have the use of my flat. He would be more grateful than David and probably leave me a duty-free bottle of bourbon.

  ‘Won’t he be going to the British Museum like you?’

  ‘Oh yes, I expect so.’

  ‘Couldn’t we come to an arrangement – sneak in while he’s out?’

  ‘That would upset Mrs Abrahams.’ She would be in the kitchen a lot. Morris had married out, to the distress of his family, so Mrs Abrahams was trying to make amends by practising kosher recipes. She was a second wife.

  ‘So you don’t want me to come here at all while you’re away – to clean or anything?’

  ‘No. Of course I’ll pay you just the same.’

  With Gemma it had been all disappointment. With him it was rage. But there was nothing he could do.

  ‘He’s in a filthy temper,’ Catherine said. ‘What’s gone wrong? It ought to be too soon for trouble.’

  We were eating lasagne in a nice Hampstead restaurant (my choice). I explained about my holiday and the visiting American professor. She listened attentively and then began to laugh.

  ‘I don’t believe a word of it.’

  I tried to assume an innocent, injured face, but it didn’t work too well. She knew me already.

  ‘You’re just doing it to be spiteful,’ she said.

  ‘Well… it is my flat. Why should they have it when I’m away?’


  ‘I wonder if he’ll find somewhere else to meet her. I’ll soon know if he doesn’t.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He’ll start making love to me again.’

  I asked if she minded and she looked almost gleeful.

  ‘I shall lie still as a stone and make him feel it’s rape.’ She smiled. ‘All that lovely guilt.’

  ‘His or yours?’

  ‘His, of course. I never feel guilty about anything.’

  As you can see, we were rapidly becoming more intimate. My attentiveness was paying off. I felt privileged every time she told me something new. Often if I made no reply but merely studied her bony, mobile face, leaving a space for her to speak, she would go on.

  Now she said, ‘D’you like Wagner?’

  ‘Yes. Very much.’

  ‘I don’t. I often think Wagner must have made love like David. A long, exhausting performance full of noise and false climaxes. By the time you get to the end, you’re too worn out to enjoy it. I’ll settle for a quick bash on the surgery floor any time.’

  I must have looked surprised for she pretended alarm and added, ‘Oh dear, now I’ve given the game away.’

  ‘What game?’ I asked obediently.

  ‘I’m having an affair with my doctor. It’s terribly convenient. David thinks I’m a frightful hypochondriac. I’ve been dying to tell someone about it and you’re the obvious person. You really treasure secrets, don’t you? No wonder you like having David and Gemma in your flat.’

  But my mind had stopped five sentences back. I was stunned. (Was it true?)

  ‘Are you really having an affair?’ It would explain everything: the alleged frigidity, the unconcern, the air of wellbeing.

  ‘Oh dear, now you’re doubting everything I say. It’s David who tells lies, you know, not me – well, not often. It rubs off a bit, I suppose.’

  ‘You’re not answering my question.’

  ‘Yes, of course I’m having an affair. It’s lovely. Perfectly safe for me and terribly dangerous for him. God knows what he’ll do if he ever wants to end it – I could wreck his career.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t – would you?’

  ‘I might… who knows what I might do if I felt spiteful enough? But he won’t, he loves me.’

  ‘And do you love him?’

  ‘I don’t know about love any more. Perhaps.’

  ‘Doesn’t David suspect?’

  ‘No, of course not, he’s far too conceited. That’s why he thinks I’m frigid – he thinks I can do without.’ She smiled. ‘I’m talking too much and it’s all your fault. You’re a true voyeur, aren’t you – a professional.’

  On the strength of that, I ordered the mirror. My friends in Paris warned me prices had gone up.

  * * *

  ‘You’ll miss seeing Chris on TV,’ said Gemma listlessly. ‘He’ll be on while you’re away.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘He’s in a debate about contraception and abortion. They’re terribly pleased to get a doctor who’s in favour of both and religious as well.’

  She reeled off the information as if she were reading a publicity handout, but she seemed very doleful about it. ‘You must be proud of him,’ I said.

  ‘I suppose so. It’s very nice for him to be asked. All his hard work’s paid off at last. All those long evenings.’ She sounded oddly bitter.

  I said thoughtfully, ‘Funny they should both be on TV.’

  * * *

  I had to pick my moment carefully. I waited till he was up a ladder cleaning paintwork so he could not see my face (I am not as skilful a dissembler as I pretend) and I busied myself with dusting and rearranging books on their shelves. So we were both fully occupied and far apart within the confines of the room.

  I said, ‘Her husband’s going to be on TV.’

  He echoed my words most gratifyingly. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘He’s talking about sex.’

  He laughed. ‘What the hell does he know about that?’

  I laughed too: it was a comfortable feeling, making us into allies, men of the world. ‘No, not making love, prevention and cure, that’s all. He’s in a debate about abortion and contraception. He’s the Christian doctor on the panel.’

  I expected a ribald joke; instead he said seriously, ‘I don’t approve of abortion. Cathy had one once. I didn’t like it at all.’

  I said, ‘Well, I expect Christopher sees it as a last resort. The lesser of two evils and all that.’

  He said, ‘It’s not right. There’s no excuse for it.’

  It seemed unlike him to be so sternly moralistic. I said soothingly, ‘Well, Gemma’s never had one. She wanted more children but he wouldn’t let her have them.’

  A silence fell: I was alarmed. Visions of a sniper flinging his grenade, a saboteur planting his gelignite flashed across my brain. I could see why brains are described as fevered. A strange hot sensation ran over my forehead. I had planned this moment so carefully: was there to be no reaction at all?

  He said, ‘More fool him.’

  I said, ‘She was very disappointed. She really wanted more. I think that’s why she got restless. Ironic, isn’t it?’

  Another silence. I was desperate but counselled myself to be patient, to wait, as if it did not matter.

  He said casually, thoughtfully, ‘I suppose that might explain it.’

  I did not want to seem too eager. ‘Explain what?’

  ‘Why she’s so careless. I’ve often wondered. She keeps on and on about how we must be careful, but half the time she leaves it all to me.’ There was a shamefaced edge to his voice, as if he did not feel it quite proper to be disclosing these intimacies to me, yet found it impossible to resist. ‘You’d never think she’d been married ten years. God, I’ve had teenagers who knew more about it than she does.’

  ‘I suppose he takes care of all that.’ I didn’t like the words I had chosen but they seemed suitable, redolent of women’s magazines: precautions, methods, that side of marriage. ‘Have you asked her?’

  ‘No, not really. I tried but she wouldn’t talk about it.’ His voice was full of tenderness again: she was the perfect one, inviolate, her faults a delight. ‘There are things she won’t say – you can’t really discuss him with her properly.’

  I thought of the letters: was that all she would expose? End-stopped conversation: she revealed what she chose and no questions answered. I thought too of our chats when we were alone. Not enough.

  He said gently, admiringly, ‘It’s like a kind of protection. I suppose she doesn’t like to betray him twice.’

  I longed to say more but dared not. Instinct told me it was better to let the matter rest. I might well have done enough – we would see – and if not, I could always re-open the subject later. Much too dangerous to press it now, however terrifying the renewed silence. I had planted the seed (how gratifyingly sexual these metaphors are) and that must suffice.

  * * *

  On the last night, all the same, while packing my holiday clothes, such as they were, I made a thorough search of the spare room. They were a messy couple and I discovered all sorts of debris: hairpins, champagne corks, stained towels, used tissues and old lipstick, but I persevered, and at the back of a drawer I finally found Gemma’s diaphragm. Very carefully, slowly and delicately, I punctured it several times with a needle. I am remarkably ignorant of these methods and their sabotage, but it seemed worth a try, just in case my revelations had fallen on stony ground. It did occur to me to wonder if she had a similar device at home (would it be indelicate to use the same one with lover and husband, and why were her methods so primitive?) or was Christopher in sole charge and did he spring forth like Minerva fully armed? But I did not wonder for very long; I was tired and I had a plane to catch in the morning. As I fell asleep my last conscious thought was of Troilus and Criseyde and a problem I had never considered before: how had they avoided pregnancy? Three years of coitus interruptus (for what else could it have been?) seemed to take a lot of the
glamour out of their romance. Perhaps it merited a footnote.

  March

  For the first few days they did not exist. Annihilated by the heat, the flowers, the hovering humming-birds, the darkness of the nights, the blaze of day. They were people I had dreamed of in another life. I was glad of the peace: I found myself exhausted by contrivance – six months since David came to me – and the recent inexorable flow of Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays relentlessly following each other like soldiers on the march. I needed a rest.

  As always, I had not quite remembered the exaggeration of the tropics. In theory, of course, I knew from experience exactly what to expect, but the reality always took me a little by surprise. The sun in the sky was hotter and brighter than the sun in my memory; the nights more densely black, a thick, soft colour that descended more abruptly than I could ever expect. It was another world: absurd to concern myself with people in England who were not real.

  Every day after breakfast, a stroll through the hotel gardens then down to the beach, a fearsome drive, my bones and teeth rattling, but worth it to find a stretch of sand where even I did not mind exposing myself. It is not easy for a voyeur to become an exhibitionist, though that perhaps could be as good a definition of holiday as any. After lunch a languid siesta by the pool until the sudden sunset. A rest and a shower before dinner. And afterwards no more than two drinks, to avoid socialising, and early to bed for two hours’ work before sleep overcame me.

  Slowing down the pace of life makes details stand out: the highspot of my day became watching the lizards on my veranda and trying to persuade them to pose for photographs.

  Their wrinkled, primeval, jolie-laide faces reminded me of my own: I felt the tug of kinship. But they evidently did not. Too often at the last vital moment they darted away.