She turned to look at him; she shook her head. He pulled her down to kiss him and she ran her hand up and down his body, lingering on his cock with sad proprietary tenderness.
‘I love you,’ she said presently, very slowly and seriously like a pledge.
‘Then leave him.’
Silence. The tape recorder ran on, wasting itself.
He said abruptly, ‘I’m so lonely. You’ve no idea. There’s nothing like living with Cathy to make you feel alone in the world.’ He paused. ‘And there’s something about this place I don’t like.’
‘Our lovely room?’ She sounded shocked and puzzled. ‘Yes, it’s worse in here, but the whole flat, there’s something—’ He stopped. I held my breath.
‘What?’
‘Your uncle gives me the creeps, if you really want to know. I bet he comes in here and wanks after we’ve gone, poor old sod.’
‘Don’t say that, it spoils everything.’
‘Why? Surely you know he fancies you. And me, come to that.’
‘Of course he doesn’t, he’s just lonely.’
‘He’s a weirdo.’
‘No he isn’t.’
‘Kinky then. You know he is, why not admit it?’
‘He’s a bit eccentric – all right – but he can’t help it – he’s alone so much.’
‘I’m not surprised. Who could fancy him the way he looks?’
‘Darling, don’t. I’ve known him all my life – and look how good he’s been to us. Where would we be without him?’
‘Better off.’
‘We’d have nowhere to go.’
‘If you’d leave Chris we could have our own place. I’m sick of meeting you in a dirty old man’s spare room.’
* * *
Well, that was what you got for trying to help people, for providing all the comfort and convenience of a brothel without the expense. They say listeners never hear any good of themselves but there is no excuse for rank ingratitude.
* * *
Catherine said, ‘I can’t think how you’re going to manage the ending. He’s bound to leave her first, he always does. I warned you about that.’
I shook my head. ‘Criseyde left Troilus in the end.’
‘I know that. But it was wartime, she was a hostage. You can’t reproduce all that. What can you possibly do – persuade her husband to emigrate and take her with him?’
‘That’s a bit too drastic, I’d never see her. Besides, he wouldn’t go; he’s a pillar of the local community.’
‘I was joking,’ she said gently.
‘She has to meet a new lover, that’s all.’
‘Diomedes.’
‘Of course.’
‘I always fancied Diomedes. I remember thinking Troilus was a bit wet, really, always bursting into tears and not eating, but Diomedes was sexy. I always liked Greeks after that.’ We were walking in Hyde Park. It was turning from a warm spring into a hot summer and office workers, wage slaves, lay sprawled on the grass in various stages of undress. Catherine picked her way delicately through them, looking absurdly young in jeans and a diaphanous shirt. I was proud of her.
* * *
On the last day before the holiday they made love with particular beauty and skill. I could not hear their voices clearly, they were muffled against each other’s skin, but David was saying something urgent to Gemma about not letting Chris make love to her. They both wept a little in their embrace, I remember, and I found that more moving and erotic than anything else they had done. For a moment I almost felt an intruder.
While he was dressing she got up, still naked, and wandered across to the mirror to brush her hair. I held my breath; we were inches apart; she looked as if into my eyes and saw, of course, nothing but her own reflection, while I felt I gazed into her soul. It was what I had always coveted.
* * *
They were so preoccupied with themselves that never once did they try the locked door or question my new habit of going away at weekends. They never even asked if I enjoyed myself. Love makes people very selfish. I have noticed that before.
June
I thought I would miss them and all my new-found delights, but in fact I was glad of the rest. Like a too rich diet, my observations had weighed me down. I was heavy, exhausted, satiated.
David cleaned sullenly. He arrived late and left early. He took frequent breaks for coffee and martinis. He talked round the subject, nothing of interest about himself and Gemma, but a lot of veiled malice about Christopher and a constant peevish refrain about why Gemma was afraid to leave home. He tried to present this as a temporary fear, as if he were certain that she (or he) would overcome it. I was not sure if he was trying to convince himself or me.
‘She doesn’t love him, you know,’ he said insistently. ‘She’s just sorry for him. She doesn’t know how to tell him it’s all over.’
He looked peculiarly attractive: it was pleasant to have him all to myself again. Of late I had been wondering sourly what Gemma saw in him (a foolish question to ask of lovers) because he was so removed from me. She had stolen him away and so, for the loss to be bearable, the prize must be worthless. But now he was given back, albeit on loan. Redeemed, like a pawnbroker’s pledge. I looked at him closely. He had one of those faces that was always changing: it could be very attractive and then just as suddenly plain, so that you were puzzled by your own allegiance. At some angles it was even lop-sided. The sulky shutdown look that moods evoked suggested more was going on in his head than (I suspect) actually was. Watching him as he stood there in his jeans and jersey, the belt on the hips, the scarf at the neck, his face a brooding mask as he cleaned my silver and reflected on his life, I was enslaved all over again and angry with myself for being so. If he could reject Catherine for Gemma, I had never stood a chance. I knew he was shallow and worthless, that was why I had chosen him, to give us all the maximum trouble. I could not go back on my bargain now and wish him more amiable. I should not complain that there was not enough inside his lovely shell. So why did I still hanker after him? I had seen the extent (and limitations) of his sexual performance; I knew (at one remove) every detail of his body; I was satisfied that there was little of interest in his head. But – and perhaps this is true of all people who sell themselves for a living – the elusive essence of self was exceptionally fascinating, for that was all he had to offer. The play of light upon his face, the way it changed from little-boy-lost actorish puppy charm to dangerous crooked devious malice. He in himself was not really powerful except in this one aspect of quick-change artist. It left us all not knowing quite where we were, a delicious uncertainty. Kicking and stroking were interchangeable. The waif we had rescued might turn on us yet, all gratitude gone, steal our silver and kick us in the teeth. Or (if we were very lucky) kiss our feet and weep to be forgiven. It could go either way; that was part of the fascination. But – and this worried me – uncertainty too could become boring, a habit like any other. Suppose I should tire of him before Gemma did? What if my spare room became a permanent refuge for two people who no longer excited me? How would I bear it? How (more important) would I ever get rid of them?
He talked a lot about Catherine too: how she suspected; how she was jealous; how she kept pretending she was ill in order to capture his attention; how surprised she would be when he left her and how it would serve her right for being such a cold-hearted bitch. He said all that in a sour, aggrieved, obsessional tone, often repeating himself. I said nothing but listened attentively. One day he suddenly rounded on me. ‘You must be very pleased with yourself,’ he said savagely. ‘You’ve really messed things up good and proper.’
* * *
Gemma wrote from Majorca:
‘Dear Uncle Alex,
I’m enclosing a letter for David, please don’t tell him what’s in your letter. I’ve made a big effort to be cheerful in his letter.
I am afraid I may be pregnant. I can’t tell David yet in case it isn’t true, please God it isn’t, telling him would make it mor
e likely somehow. I don’t know why I’m telling you really except I must tell someone. I was late before we left but put it down to the worry about leaving David and going on holiday with Chris etc. But I am still late, in fact now I am twelve days late and I have never been twelve days late in my life without being pregnant.
I can’t be pregnant, it’s absolutely impossible. I can’t worry David with it, it’s too silly. But if I am pregnant I’ve got to have an abortion and I’m terrified of abortion, I always have been, the more Chris tells me about how simple and easy and painless it is these days the more I curl up and die. I mean when he tells me about abortion in the course of his work, not that he’s got any idea about me. But can you imagine if I am – the effort of keeping something like that secret from your husband who also happens to be a doctor?
Please please make me not be pregnant. I’ve never prayed so much in my life as I have this week but nothing happens. Do you think God doesn’t hear me? Why can’t he be merciful and let something happen? The awful irony as you know is I’ve always wanted another child by Chris and now even more by David, and this means I’ll have to get rid of something I want to keep. I can’t believe it, it’s too cruel. Oh please let it not be true. Perhaps after I post this something will happen.
To make matters worse this is a lovely place and we could all be enjoying ourselves. Chris was right, there are still unspoilt bits though Robert Graves and Chopin haven’t turned up yet. The hotel is super and we have a small beach nearly to ourselves and delicious food and lots of lovely walks. The kids are loving it and Helga’s very good with them though I find her a strain after Inge who was so quiet – she’s got a mid laugh and does everything too loudly. But it may be just my nerves. I expect I’d find anyone a trial just now.
Chris is being terribly sweet and considerate – well, he always is but more so – which is absolutely terrifying because it makes me think he suspects something. Whatever I want to do is okay with him and no matter how moody I am he’s never cross with me.
I just can’t believe it, every day I tell myself it can’t be true but still nothing happens. Oh I want it so much and I can’t have it, it’s not fair. If I was at home I could have a test. I don’t know how I’m going to last another week without knowing. But of course I won’t have to, something’s bound to happen before then.
Please not a word to David, there’s no point in alarming him about nothing. If you can’t pray can you cast a spell or cast entrails or whatever you do – please? See, I can make jokes so I must be quite rational only I wake up in the night, like a mad woman choking with terror and I have to tell Chris I’ve been dreaming – oh please let it not be true.
Love,
Gemma
P.S. Seriously – please pray for me – even if you don’t believe – it might do some good – anything might – please try.’
The letter puzzled me, after my initial elation subsided. It seemed wonderful news to me: why was Gemma so distressed? I could only think that she was unsure who was the father of the child. Did she perhaps feel that she could not stay with Christopher and bear David’s child, nor run away with David while pregnant by Christopher? Delicate scruples, it seemed to me, but who was I to question how women felt about these matters? Still, it annoyed me not to be able to rejoice wholeheartedly. I would have liked to revel in our triumph, whether it was due to Gemma’s inefficiency, David’s careless egotism or my own contrivance. We would never know, but for the first time in my life I felt I had a share in paternity.
When I was calmer, I put on the kettle and opened Gemma’s letter to David.
(8)
‘Darling my love,
I miss you so much. We seem to have found one of the few beautiful quiet places left on the island – if only you and I could be here together.
I think such a lot about our night together. Going to sleep with you, waking up with you. What luxury. If that’s what a lifetime would be like – but would it? If I brought the children with me would you get sick of them? Would you be jealous if I had mine and you didn’t have yours? If I left mine with Chris would I feel so guilty or miss them so much we couldn’t be happy together?
I’ve been thinking about all this very seriously as you can see. We must get something settled soon. I know things are terribly difficult as they are but I don’t want to exchange one sort of problem for another. There must be a solution – so many people are in our situation after all and they find ways out of it. Perhaps if we all lived near enough to each other (though not too near of course) we could have the children Monday to Friday and Chris could have them at weekends. Then Cathy might let you have yours when mine were with Chris. It all sounds very complicated but I’m sure we could work something out.
The really awful bit I can’t get over in my head is telling Chris. It wouldn’t be so bad if he’d been a rotten husband – if I’d had a difficult marriage the way you have – but he’s really done nothing wrong and it seems so unfair to leave him and take his children away from him when he doesn’t deserve it. Still, perhaps he’ll be better off without me. I can’t have been making him very happy lately.
Darling I love you so much, I don’t think I was really alive till I met you. We’ll manage to be together somehow won’t we? Only we must be very sure what we’re doing. There are so many people involved. I think I’m a bit afraid of putting too much pressure on us and spoiling what we have. But I can’t imagine living with Chris for the rest of my life – not even another year. It just isn’t living. It’s funny when you think how lightly we started, and now we’re facing all this upheaval. We were so sure it would never come to this, weren’t we? But now it has and of course you’re right, we can’t go on meeting in Uncle A.’s spare room for the rest of our lives. I don’t actually hate it the way you do but I’d love us to have a place of our own – God how I’d love it. It only worries me that maybe we’re being too greedy and if we try for too much we’ll be punished and lose it all. Please be very sure you won’t have regrets – I promise I won’t have if you don’t.
Remember how much I love you. Oh darling please hold me tight.
Your Gemma’
When I had resealed David’s letter, I read mine again. They might have been written by two different people. How strange women are.
* * *
‘Must be a big thing this time,’ Catherine said lightly. ‘He hasn’t laid a finger on me all the time she’s been away.’
* * *
They were sitting on either side of the table when I came in. Gemma looked tanned and fit and well, her brown face contrasting strangely with her expression of stricken misery. David looked pale and sick and angry.
‘Well, go on, tell him,’ he said, pointing at me with his thumb. ‘He might as well know.’
Gemma barely lifted her head to acknowledge my presence, though I had not seen her for two weeks. ‘He knows already,’ she said in a low voice.
‘Oh, great. Who else have you told? Maybe I’m the last to know.’
She muttered very low, ‘No one else.’
‘Apart from a few dozen friends and relations, I suppose.’
‘I had to tell someone. I didn’t want to worry you.’
I had never seen two people so savagely unhappy. I even suggested leaving them alone again, although as far as I knew they had already been alone for three hours, but they both demanded that I stay, so insistently that it occurred to me they were hoping I would arbitrate.
‘She’s going to kill my child,’ he said to me. ‘That’s all. She’s going to have it sucked out of her, all blood and bits, into a bottle. It doesn’t take long, only about five minutes, and you don’t feel a thing, well, maybe a bit of discomfort or the odd twinge or two, but nothing you could really call pain. Isn’t that splendid? Her shit of a husband was explaining all about it on TV. It’s the in-thing nowadays – did you know that? All the smart trendy people are having it done. Lunchtime abortion, it’s called. Well, it saves so much time when you’re out shop
ping.’
Gemma started to cry silently, big tears rolling down her cheeks like a child. I wanted to put my arm round her but I did not like to touch her in front of him.
‘I suppose you think it’s a good idea,’ he said. ‘You’ve been encouraging her, haven’t you?’
‘I don’t know anything about it,’ I said with dignity, ‘but it’s Gemma’s decision.’
‘And it’s my child.’ He banged his fist on my (rather valuable) table. I really wished he wouldn’t.
‘I haven’t got a choice,’ Gemma said, barely audible.
‘Why don’t you get your precious husband to do it for you since it’s so easy and he’s so keen on it?’
‘Aren’t you being a little hard on her?’ I said, as it seemed my duty to intervene. ‘I happen to know Gemma doesn’t like abortion any more than you do, but if she thinks it’s necessary—’
‘It’s murder,’ he said flatly. My heart sank as I heard the no-argument tones of sheer irrationality. The fanatic on his soap-box.
‘Would you feel so strongly,’ I enquired, ‘if it was Christopher’s child?’
‘She says it isn’t.’
‘But if it was. That wouldn’t be murder, would it? You’d be glad to get rid of it. It’s only your children that are sacred.’ I was thinking of Catherine.
He didn’t answer (which convinced me I was right), just kept looking at Gemma, who stared at the table, tears streaming down her face.
‘Is it Christopher’s child, Gemma?’
She shook her head.
‘How can you be sure? You still have it off with him, I know you do.’
‘If Gemma’s not sure,’ I said to pacify him because Gemma didn’t seem able to help herself much, ‘isn’t that a good reason for having an abortion?’ It annoyed me slightly to think that we were going through all these contortions when one good hefty lie from Gemma would settle the whole matter.
An Evil Streak Page 18
