An Evil Streak

by An Evil Streak (retail) (epub)

  ‘Why aren’t you with her?’

  ‘She wouldn’t have me. It was you she wanted.’

  ‘I couldn’t face it.’

  ‘She shouldn’t be there alone.’

  ‘She shouldn’t be there at all.’

  Deadlock. I had to admit he was consistent, at least. I wondered how much guilt he actually felt: had he rationalised it all or was he now busy swamping it all in drink? I studied him: it was strange to consider what fevered emotions he had aroused – in me, in Gemma, once upon a time (presumably) in Catherine. It was not one of his good days: he was looking ordinary.

  ‘We could have been happy,’ he said. ‘You should have left us alone.’

  I began to protest my innocence but he cut me short.

  ‘We didn’t stand a chance with you breathing down our necks, poisoning everything. You never wanted me to have her, did you, not for myself. Only for you. I had to do it for you.’

  He helped himself liberally to martini. I said nothing. Time passed slowly. I wondered what stage Gemma had reached by now. Was it all over?

  ‘You never meant us to be happy,’ he went on at last; he seemed to need this alcoholic monologue. ‘You’re not interested in happiness, are you? You can’t be happy so why should anyone else? If she’d gone away with me you’d have lost her, wouldn’t you?’

  Well, it was one way of looking at it. He was obviously hell-bent on blaming me for everything. I decided to maintain a dignified silence. Never argue with a drunk.

  ‘She did love me,’ he said presently, emphatically, as though I had denied it. ‘You don’t believe me but she did.’

  He seemed in considerable distress, but I had to remember he was an actor. It was easy to forget that, since he was not a very good one and worked so seldom, but it remained a fact and could mean that he was acting now. He was also considerably drunk.

  I sat and watched him as one might an invalid: warily, with concerned detachment, alert for signs of recovery or deterioration.

  ‘She must love him very much,’ he said suddenly, ‘to do this for him. I don’t think I can bear it.’ And he started to cry. I gazed at him with fascinated horror. I could not comfort him because the same thought had occurred to me; I felt he was right.

  He sobbed for a while as though his heart would break, as though he had a heart to break. Then he seized the telephone.

  ‘I’ve got to talk to her,’ he said in a frenzy.

  ‘You can’t ring up somebody at a hospital,’ I said, wondering if he was entirely sane.

  He ignored me, dialling. And looked at me through his angry tears as if I were the one who was mad.

  Then all became clear. He said, ‘Cathy, I can’t bear it, you’ve got to forgive me, we can try again, it’ll be different this time, I promise, Cathy, please listen, don’t leave me, Cathy.’

  He went on and on. There was far more that I don’t recall precisely because it was so repetitive. I listened in amazement: it was like having Heathcliff in my living-room during one of his bad patches. Catherine’s answers must have been brief and to the point, or else he would not let her speak at all, for his monologue seemed almost uninterrupted. It was all begging and pleading and sobbing, all wild promises and unlikely resolutions, a dreadful exhibition totally lacking in dignity and punctuated by her name, incessantly repeated like a church bell tolling or a dog howling in the distance. On one level it seemed impossible that Gemma should be having an abortion while he behaved like this, yet on another it made perfect sense. I longed to go and listen to Catherine’s answers, however monosyllabic, on the bedroom extension, but reckoned that while David in his present state would probably not notice, my chances of picking up the receiver undetected by Catherine were nil. So I remained where I was and surveyed the wreck before my eyes. Crying had made him very ugly.

  Eventually Catherine must have said something final or he must have run out of energy, for he suddenly put down the receiver in mid-sentence, buried his head in his hands for a moment, then jumped up, looking green in the face, and went off to be sick in my bathroom. I could hear the dreadful retching sounds from where I sat. When he came back he looked at me with loathing, said he hoped I was satisfied, and slammed out of the flat.

  I stayed where I was for some time after he had gone. The silence was miraculous. I wondered if I might even be losing my taste for drama, but decided it was the extreme vulgarity of the scene which had distressed me. I did not realise how well off I was at that moment. Later, when I went casually into the bathroom, I found myself obliged to clear up vomit.

  * * *

  Gemma, who had some excuse for melodrama, was totally silent. She sat in the car like a little ghost, not saying a word; hugging herself and rocking gently to and fro. She alarmed me. If I spoke to her she would answer, but that was all.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was it awful?’

  ‘No. They were all very kind.’

  The hospital and my flat were not far apart, but it seemed the longest, slowest drive I had ever undertaken. The traffic was dense and all the lights were against us. Every time we stopped, crowds of people in summer clothes crossed the road in front of us; it was a hot day. But Gemma, I noticed, was shivering. Her silence created appalling tension in the car: it was like a cold thick fog through which I had to slice in order to breathe. I would have preferred tears, anger, hysteria. Anything.

  ‘Soon be home,’ I said cheerily.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I expect you’d like to rest and have some tea.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She was so remote from me it did not seem possible I had known her all her life. I could not think what to say to her; I searched my mind like a phrase book, finding only stilted formalities, all irrelevant to the situation.

  ‘Try not to worry. You’ll feel better soon.’

  ‘Yes.’

  I gave up and concentrated on driving. Unused to Gemma’s car, I found the gears a little awkward. Gemma spoke only once of her own accord. As we drew up outside the flat she said with an obvious effort:

  ‘Is he here?’

  I said, embarrassed, ‘No, he left early.’

  I felt I had failed her utterly. The one thing she wanted I could not provide. She got out of the car in silence, but her disappointment was heavy in the air and she moved stiffly, like an old woman. I felt I ought to be careful of her, apart from wanting to touch and comfort her; I put my arm round her shoulders, very tentatively, but she shrugged it away.

  Inside, she lay on the sofa like an obedient child, sick on a summer’s day. I wrapped her up in blankets and she shivered, while outside the sun shone. I made tea for her and began explaining it was just as well David had gone; it would have been too emotional for them to meet today, too exhausting. I tried to make it sound as if David had been considerate, thinking only of her welfare, while we both knew that he had deprived her of the one thing she needed: his presence. She listened till I ran out of insincere, well-meant words, then she said politely:

  ‘Could you leave me alone, please.’

  I went and sat in my study like an outcast. I thought how far we had come, looking back like a traveller at the bumpy, dusty road behind. I could not see the path ahead. I felt very old. I felt I had run out of ingenuity.

  At four she came and tapped on the door and said she was leaving. She had made up her face with care, for Christopher and the children, I supposed; she looked nearly normal. I tried to get over my feeling of exclusion; I asked if she was fit to drive and should I come with her. She said she was supposed to have someone with her but she preferred to be alone. I said I was worried about her and asked her to ring me as soon as she got home.

  ‘They’ll think it odd,’ she said.

  ‘You can pretend you’ve forgotten something.’

  ‘I’m tired of telling lies. Anyway, if I don’t turn up, they’ll ring you.’ She gathered up her things. ‘But I’ll be all right. You needn’t worry.�
��

  I could not reach her: she had passed beyond my control. It was very disturbing.

  She said like a polite guest going home from a party, ‘Thank you for everything. I’ll pay back the loan as soon as I can.’

  ‘Please forget it.’ I felt suddenly desperate. ‘Let me come with you.’

  ‘No. Really not.’

  I saw her out reluctantly. At the door she paused and said abruptly, ‘D’you think he’ll ever forgive me? Because if he doesn’t, I’ll have nothing to live for.’

  * * *

  ‘I shouldn’t expect him back if I were you.’ Catherine’s voice was crisp on the phone and she had perversely chosen the early morning to ring: a time when I scarcely knew who I was, so how could I be expected to recognise her and make sense of what she said.

  ‘What? Why not?’ I tugged off my mask and blinked at the daylight.

  ‘He’s gone to Birmingham. He thinks they’re going to write him into that serial, the one he did a week in. They’ve built up his part or something. God knows. Anyway, it’s work. I think you’d better find yourself another cleaner.’

  ‘But he can’t…’ I heard myself spluttering with indignation. ‘He can’t just disappear like that.’

  ‘You must be joking.’ There was a certain grim satisfaction in her voice. ‘He’s renowned for it.’

  ‘But what about you and the children?’

  ‘Oh, he’ll be down at weekends, I expect.’ She sounded as if the pattern was boringly familiar.

  ‘But the other day – when he rang you from here – he was so upset.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ A long pause. ‘Yes. He always is.’

  I tried to gather my wits. ‘Look, I don’t think you understand my position. What do I tell Gemma?’

  ‘Tell her it’s over. She probably knows anyway.’

  I was shocked. ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not? It’s the truth.’

  ‘Then he’s got to tell her himself.’

  ‘Why? He’ll only make it worse. I’m sure you could do it much better.’

  ‘But she’s had the abortion, she’s very upset, all she wants is to see him, she rings me up every day to ask if he’s here’

  ‘Mr Kyle, I’m sorry, but that’s not my problem. I told you what would happen and it has. You wouldn’t stop it when you had the chance. There’s really nothing I can do.’

  ‘Can’t you make him write to her?’

  ‘I can’t make him do anything. Besides, he’s very bad at letters.’

  ‘But if you ask him. If you explain. He listens to you.’

  ‘He hangs on to me. It’s not the same thing. Look, I’ll have to go. My little girl’s being sick.’

  * * *

  It was a bizarre time for me. Everything had happened quickly but most of it behind my back. Off-stage. From being the producer, I was no longer even a member of the audience. Gemma’s telephone calls afflicted me like a hair shirt. Every day: ‘Is he there? Have you seen him? Are you expecting him?’ She sounded like a wraith; I found myself picturing Giselle. I could not manage to deliver the coup de grâce; I could not quite believe it was necessary. At any moment I expected David to materialise. Love affairs did not end like this – did they? So abruptly, so haphazardly? No one could leave his mistress on the day of an abortion and disappear to Birmingham. People telephoned; they wrote letters. So I temporised: I said no, he was not here, I had not seen him, but I was expecting him – he was bound to turn up sooner or later. Meanwhile, my life seemed to have come to a standstill: from seeing all three of them, I saw no one.

  Gemma apologised each time she rang up, which made me feel worse. She was so polite. ‘I’m sorry to keep doing this but I must speak to David.’ I longed to magic him out of thin air. After a week or ten days she became hysterical, sobbing down the phone, ‘I can’t bear it, you’ve got to find him, you’ve got to.’ She was like an addict demanding a fix. Naked embarrassing pain like a raw bleeding wound was on the other end of my phone. I could not bear to tell her he had gone to Birmingham; it seemed so callous. I said perhaps he was ill.

  * * *

  ‘Look,’ Catherine said briskly at eight am, to my horror and disbelief, ‘you’ve got to stop this. She’s outside my flat every day.’

  The telephone calls had ceased; I had gratefully assumed resignation. I said faintly, out of the bowels of sleep, ‘What do you mean?’

  The voice was irritable. ‘Oh God, surely you know. She drives here every day. She sits outside in her car. She walks up and down. She cries.’

  ‘Gemma?’ I was stupid with sleep.

  ‘Who else? She’s small and dark and pretty, right? And she drives a Renault. Well, she’s been here every day for a week. I can’t stand it. You’ve got to stop her.’

  I began to wake up. ‘How can I stop her?’

  ‘Tell her it’s over, for God’s sake. Get her off my back. I can’t stand these bloody women and their emotions on my doorstep.’

  I had never heard her express so much feeling before.

  ‘Get your wretched husband to tell her,’ I said. ‘That’s all she wants.’

  ‘He’s in Birmingham. Haven’t you told her that?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s not my job. And it’s not your job either. Does David always get you to do his dirty work for him?’

  ‘Usually. When something’s over he wants to forget it ever happened so he just cuts out. Anyway, I think he’s got a girl in Birmingham.’

  I was silent, trying to force my brain into some sort of working order.

  ‘Are you still there?’ she demanded sharply.

  ‘If she went to Birmingham,’ I said, ‘would he see her?’

  ‘I suppose she could picket the studio. But he won’t be pleasant if she does see him, believe me. When he’s finished with someone he turns very nasty. I don’t think he likes being reminded of the mess he’s made. She’s really much better off not seeing him, honestly. It’ll only make an even worse ending.’

  I was still thinking. I wanted to gratify Gemma’s wish, even wrongly; I needed to be powerful enough to do that. I also could not quite believe that a meeting would not melt David’s heart, if he had one. Surely he could not look at Gemma and feel nothing?

  ‘What about weekends?’ I said. ‘You told me he’d be home at weekends.’

  Catherine said quickly, ‘But she can’t get away at weekends, can she?’

  ‘No, not easily. But if she could – would you get him to see her? And that would be the end of it.’ Or a new start?

  Catherine sighed. ‘No, he’s in Brighton at weekends.’

  ‘Are you protecting him?’

  ‘Why should I?’ She sounded weary.

  ‘Is he hiding in Brighton?’

  ‘No, he’s visiting his mother.’ She had put on a patient voice as if talking to an idiot. ‘The children are staying with her.’

  ‘In Brighton?’

  ‘That’s where she lives.’

  ‘But I thought she was dead.’

  ‘I told you he has fantasies.’

  * * *

  Gemma came to see me. She went and shut herself in the spare room for a long time like a pilgrim; she came out pale and distressed but somehow uplifted.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I was afraid to come but it does help – it does make me feel a little nearer him. Where is he? You know, don’t you? You must tell me. Please. I can’t bear it. Please tell me.’

  ‘His wife rang up,’ I said gently, ‘to say he’s giving up his job here. He’s in Birmingham, he’s got a TV part. He’s going to be there for months and he’s not home at weekends.’

  She was silent.

  I said, ‘My love, you’ve got to stop going to his flat. You won’t see him there and you’re only upsetting his wife.’

  To my surprise she said, ‘Perhaps if I upset her enough she’ll let me see him. I wrote him a letter but I don’t think she sent it on. I know he’d have answered if he got it. I’ll have to write to the stud
io. You see, he’s afraid. He thinks I’m going to be bitter and make a scene. But I won’t. I just want him to forgive me. Then we can start again.’

  She settled herself on the sofa and stared at me with large, imploring eyes, begging me to agree with her.

  ‘I know he loves Cathy and I love Chris. But that’s all right. It doesn’t affect how we feel about each other. We just got too greedy, that’s all. We thought we could have everything. But we couldn’t.’ She paused. ‘Well, we’ve paid for that.’

  ‘You mean you have.’

  ‘No, both of us. He was terribly upset. You saw him.’

  I did not know what to say.

  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘you haven’t always seen him at his best. But when we’re alone together he’s lovely to me. Really.’

  I remembered when she had said much the same thing about Christopher.

  ‘Then why hasn’t he been in touch?’ I felt callous in the extreme but I could not bear to let her go on constructing false hopes.

  ‘He’s hurt and angry. He feels guilty. Look, I understand all that. I can make it all right. And he’s working. It’s only two weeks and a bit.’

  Silence. I marvelled at the generosity of women. But the self-deception was alarming.

  ‘If you saw him,’ I said, ‘and you found it was over… Could you face that?’

  Her face changed. ‘But it isn’t over.’

  ‘But if it was.’

  ‘No, really.’ There was absolute terror in her eyes. ‘You don’t understand. He really does love me. That’s why he was so upset. What I did – it was like his mother rejecting him all over again. That’s why I’ve got to see him – to tell him I understand.’

  ‘His mother’s alive and well,’ I said, hating myself, ‘and living in Brighton.’

  She frowned as if I were talking a foreign language.

  ‘He lied to you,’ I said.