My career would be damaged, certainly. But it could weather the storm. I was not so ambitious that my career would count for very much, if I had to choose between a public life and a life with Anna.
But Anna had said she would not marry me. Oh, but she will, she will, I told myself. Visions of Anna and me as man and wife — breakfasts together, dinners with friends, holidays together — flooded my mind. I felt sick. The visions had a hideous incongruity. It wouldn’t work. We were made for other things. For needs that had to be answered day or night – sudden longings – a strange language of the body. An inner voice cried, ‘Anna won’t marry you’. And she was right. Her arrangement was pure. No one would suffer. The surface could remain exactly as it was. Ingrid and I, Sally, Martyn and Anna, each of us continuing along our chosen path.
After all, I had lived a life that had never been real to me. I could surely continue to give my performance, now that at last I had a real life. The one Anna had given me.
TWENTY-FOUR
‘ANNA’S STEPFATHER is in town for three days, at some writers’ conference. Martyn suggested we have him to dinner. I must say I rather jumped at the idea. We agreed Thursday. I checked with your office. They said that would be OK.’
‘Good.’
‘Ever read any of his books?’
‘Yes — two, actually.’
‘Oh, my intellectual husband.’
‘Hardly!’ I lived in a country where reading two books by one of America’s best-known modern writers classed me as an intellectual.
‘Well, what’s he like as a writer? He’s very famous.’
‘He writes about alienation. Middle-class urban alienation. Twentieth-century America, divorced from its roots, with all its old values disappearing under the twin burdens of greed and fear.’
‘God! That doesn’t sound too thrilling.’
‘To be fair, that’s a rather clinical summary. He’s a brilliant writer. His female characters are particularly well drawn. Even feminists like him.’
‘How long has he been married to Anna’s mother?’ asked Ingrid.
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘What age is he?’
‘He must be in his sixties. Mid-sixties, I’d have thought.’
‘Well, it might give me a different viewpoint on Anna. I’m really looking forward to Thursday. I’m going to attempt one of his books. Do you think they’re in your study?’
‘Possibly. I’ll go and check.’
I found them easily.
‘Here they are’ I said to Ingrid, who had followed me. ‘The Glory Boy and Bartering Time.‘
‘Which is easiest? No … which is shortest?’
‘Try The Glory Boy.’
‘I won’t finish it by Thursday, but I’ll have some idea, won’t I?’
‘You will indeed, Ingrid. He’s got a very specific style which permeates all his books. I must go. You look lovely in that beige dress. Très chic.‘
‘Merci, chéri — au revoir.’
Now that my real self lived and walked and breathed as Anna’s creature, oh lucky creature, there were days when I enjoyed my role as Ingrid’s husband more than I ever had before. I felt no guilt. All would be well with Ingrid. That morning I had an extraordinary illusion that she knew, and that she understood. She smiled so happily at me as I left, I was almost giddy with relief and joy.
TWENTY-FIVE
WILBUR HUNTER HAD presence. Wilbur Hunter was aware that he had presence. I watched him gaze at Ingrid with solemnity mixed with intense interest.
As he accepted a whisky, he said: ‘You know, I haven’t seen Anna for a long time. I’ve never even been invited to meet her friends before. So this is a very special occasion.’
‘How long is it since you last visited London?’
‘Oh, five, six years.’
‘Has it changed?’
‘I don’t let it change. It’s frozen in my heart as the place in which I met Anna’s mother, twelve years ago. I refuse to see any changes either in London, or in her.’
‘How gallant,’ said Ingrid.
‘Contrary to my image, I’m a romantic at heart. Are you a romantic?’
His query was clearly directed at me. I could see something strange in his gaze.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Ingrid. ‘In a very subtle way, I think he’s quite romantic.’
‘Anna’s not a romantic. Are you, Anna?’
‘No.’
‘Have you found that, Martyn? Or perhaps you disagree.’
‘As you said earlier, Wilbur, a romantic refuses to see changes in people he loves, or in cities which hold amorous memories for him. The meaning of “romantic” could actually be “untruthful”. Would you agree?’
‘And Anna,’ said Wilbur, ‘is a very truthful girl.’
‘Yes,’ said Martyn. ‘She is totally truthful. I find that extraordinarily moving, and more exciting than romantic.’
‘Indeed,’ said Ingrid, feeling the conversation take on an edge she was unused to.
‘It’s a cliché, of course,’ said Wilbur, ‘but I find there are so many versions of truth. Versions of the truth may be perfectly acceptable, as most of the time nobody knows the whole truth, do they?’
‘That sounds slightly cynical.’ I tried to lighten things a little. ‘Romance, like idealism, may be the last refuge of the cynic.’
Martyn laughed. Wilbur turned to him.
‘You haven’t given yourself away, Martyn. Are you the cynic masked as romantic, the dissembler in the mask of truth?’
‘I’m like Anna. I’m truthful. However, I am prepared to accept from others their own version of reality. I think it is a basic freedom really, to create one’s own reality from whatever truths are available.’
‘I can see already that you and Anna are well suited. Anna tells me you are interested in writing novels, Martyn.’
‘Yes. But then quite a few journalists say that.’
‘But you mean it,’ said Anna.
Martyn looked embarrassed.
‘You’ve never mentioned this to me, Martyn.’ There was a shaming note of petulance in my voice. I tried to change my tone. ‘I mean, that’s very interesting.’
‘Well, Dad, it’s my secret life.’ He laughed.
‘I have no children,’ said Wilbur. ‘Maybe that’s why I’m always examining them in my writing. And what obsesses you, Martyn? A writer is always obsessed by something.’
‘I’m obsessed by the subject we have just been discussing. Truth. I’m obsessed by the question of whether it exists as an absolute. Can a liar be giving the most accurate description of someone else’s reality? That’s why I love journalism. It’s the perfect training for what I want to explore as a writer.’
Martyn’s voice continued, but I was unable to absorb his words. Stunned by admiration and jealousy, I realised that my son, cloaked in his own reality of beauty and intelligence, had become at last and most dangerously my rival.
‘I hate to interrupt, but dinner’s ready. Let’s go in,’ said Ingrid.
She had received her long-agreed signal from Alice, ‘our treasure’ as Ingrid called her.
‘You know, I’m truly glad to meet you all. It was a great delight to Anna’s mother to hear of this invitation.’ Wilbur smiled at us all as he sat down.
‘When did you last see your mother, Anna?’ Ingrid looked at Anna.
‘Almost two years ago.’
‘That’s a very long time,’ said Ingrid quietly.
‘All families are different.’ Martyn leaped to her defence.
‘The mother-daughter relationship is particularly difficult, I think,’ said Wilbur.
‘You write about it so sensitively in The Glory Boy.’ Ingrid glanced at me triumphantly.
‘Thank you, Ingrid.’
‘Anna sees her father more regularly. He lives in England.’
Ingrid looked again at Anna.
‘Yes, I do see Father more often. It’s easier. I saw my mother regularly when I went to co
llege in America. Wilbur has always been very kind.’
‘Who wouldn’t be kind to you?’ Martyn gazed lovingly at Anna. Suddenly he took her hand and kissed it.
A voice in my head drummed orders. Stay still, stay still. Say nothing. Do nothing. If you can’t handle this, what in hell can you handle? The pain will go. It will go in a minute. This is nothing. This is pre-dinner banter.
I wanted to scream at him, ‘Don’t touch her! Don’t touch her!’
Don’t touch the hand of my slave! Slave! Come to me now! Here! In front of everyone! Let me worship you! Slave! Let me kneel to you!
Look at him. Look at him, the hated inner voice continued, think of all those women in his past. This is no young man in love with the magnetic stranger. He’s her match, he’s anybody’s match. He’s your match. He’s your match round a dinner table, you arrogant fool. He’s your match in bed. Face up to this now. Bed, bed, with Anna. When and how often? Think about it. Look at them now.
You can’t take this. You can’t handle this. You’ve never handled anything in your life. What on earth made you imagine you could stay sane in this situation? It’s me or it’s Martyn. I must, must have her. I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe.
‘Darling! What is it? Your hand! You’ve crushed your glass in your hand! Martyn, run to the kitchen, get a cloth and the first-aid kit.’
I looked at my bleeding hand and the crushed particles as they fell to the table.
‘Oh, honestly, it’s just a small cut. You see, Wilbur, the violence of the English family dinner.’
Wilbur laughed. I felt deeply grateful to him. He had cleverly, perhaps deliberately, robbed the moment of its drama.
Ingrid was at her most impressive. Cool, in charge, expertly bandaging cut thumb and finger. The slivers of broken glass were spirited away by Alice. Suddenly a white napkin covered the red stain on the table. Like the sheet they throw over dead bodies.
‘Continue. The foolish father has now recovered. All is well. Let’s get back to reality. Or at least to Martyn’s version of it.’
Perhaps it was my tone, or the lull after the storm in the broken wineglass, but silence greeted me. I looked at Ingrid, who smiled wanly at me, and at Anna, who looked sad, then at Wilbur, who now looked embarrassed. Finally, I turned to Martyn. He looked back with concern and kindness. I felt a force that almost made me cry out, ‘Martyn, my son, my son!’ But of course no cry was heard, because no cry was made. Then the hostess rescue operation was under way again.
I applauded Ingrid silently. Well done, Ingrid. What a light touch you have. Lightness is all. Am I drunk? Surely not. Wine spilled is not the same as wine drunk.
We filed out of the dining-room, and spread ourselves in various parts of the sitting-room. I sat as far away from everyone as possible. Wilbur sat close to Martyn. Anna, who had again revealed nothing of herself in public, sat quietly beside Ingrid on the sofa.
They were a study in opposites. Ingrid, her blonde hair dressed and gleaming, wore a ruby-coloured silk shirt and a grey velvet skirt. Anna, short black wisps of hair seemingly painted on her forehead, wore a scoop-necked black wool dress.
‘Ingrid … everyone … I’m so sorry. There’s a late sitting at the House. I must go, it’s nearly eleven.’
‘Can you drive, what about your hand?’
‘Absolutely. It’s nothing.’
‘And I must leave as well.’ Wilbur stood up.
‘Darling, you can drop Wilbur, can’t you?’
‘No, no, I wouldn’t hear of it,’ Wilbur interrupted.
‘We’ll take you later — have another coffee, Wilbur.’ Martyn spoke.
I stood undecided for a moment.
‘Wilbur, come with me. It’s on my way. You’re at the Westbury, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
We got into the car. I started driving.
‘Anna’s never done this before, you know,’ said Wilbur. ‘I think that maybe she’s happy at last. Oh, we’ve met men occasionally, but never their families. Of course, Peter’s mother and Elizabeth are very close.’
‘Peter?’
‘Oh, I think it started as a young romance.’
I remembered the boy in the pink bedroom on the night Aston died.
‘They had a kind of on/off thing. It lasted for years, but she couldn’t settle with him. He wanted to marry … she didn’t. They split up. He married pretty quickly after that … disastrously I’m told. Do I assume from this dinner that Anna and Martyn are serious about each other?’
‘Possibly.’
There was an awkward silence. Then Wilbur spoke.
‘You have a problem, my friend.’
‘In what way? What do you mean?’
‘Men who crush wineglasses in their hands, while devouring young women with their eyes, suffer more than superficial wounds. Remain silent, my friend, remain silent.’
Granite, and lights, and a turbulence of people flashed past. Too late for silence. Too late.
‘Anna has brought a great deal of pain to a number of people. She is completely blameless, in my opinion. But she is a catalyst for disaster. Martyn may be different. He seems to let her be. That is vital with Anna. Try to hold her, and she will fight. You can’t break Anna. She’s already broken, you see. She must be free. That way, she will always return home. Of course, this is the advice I should be giving to the groom, and not to his father. But Martyn doesn’t seem to need it. So you, my friend, should heed what I say. It’s clearly too late for the only advice that could save you. Stay away from Anna.’
‘Your hotel, I think.’ I stopped the car.
‘Thank you. I am as the grave, sir. I carry more secrets than you can imagine. We will almost certainly meet again. From my demeanour you will doubt we ever had this conversation. Good night, and good luck.’
And he was gone.
I caught a glimpse of my face in the wing mirror. I thought suddenly of my old, careful life. Was I paying the price of goodness? Of a well-lived life? Of goodness without feeling? Of love without passion? Of children not longed for? Of a career not craved for? Sin was the price. Sin. Did I, for once in my life, have the courage for sin?
My face in the mirror told me nothing. The face which had earlier told everything to Wilbur.
The vote over, I left the House at two-thirty.
I drove past Anna’s house. Martyn’s car was not there.
I had to be in that room again. I needed to bring the painting back to life. I had to see limbs arranged as I remembered. I must gaze at her body on the table. I had to enter that world again. Immediately.
The darkness of the street, with its intermittent islands of light from the street-lamps, and the sleeping mystery of the small, silent house, combined to give an edge to my desire. The edge of fear. Fear that she might not be there. Fear that she was with Martyn now, in the house. Fear twisted desire. I was almost gasping as I rang the bell.
Lights, footsteps, and she stood before me. I brushed past her into the hall.
I glanced upstairs. ‘Martyn is not here?’
‘No.’
‘I gambled. There was no car.’ She was wearing a dark silk dressing-gown. It had a masculine cut. As I followed her towards the room, an image of a boy with dark curly hair and strong back moving before me made me shudder. It was a memory of an adolescent Martyn, walking in a dark paisley dressing-gown down the hall, as I returned from a late-night sitting of years ago.
She swung around, and the image died as the dressing-gown fell open over her breasts. She led me to the table. I used the silken belt, and the black loose silk underneath, in a tableau of deliberate movements and restrictions, that at various times deprived my slave of vision and of speech. Unseen, I could worship her. Without the possibility of her spoken consent I could make the eternal demands of erotic obsession.
When it was over, I threw the dressing-gown over the limbs I had so carefully arranged, as centuries ago painters covered the nakedness of the figures in the Sistine Chapel.
Under the silk, her power hidden, she lay quietly watching me as I paced around the room. Terrible thoughts and fears again consumed me.
‘Who is Peter?’
‘I’ve told you about him before.’
‘I know. But update it, Anna. Update it for me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the truth of Peter as a boy who made love to you on the night Aston died, and the truth of Peter as someone you lived with and nearly married, are very different truths.’
‘But not relevant to the story I told you.’
‘Story?’
‘The story I told you.’
‘That’s all it is to you, a story?’
‘How can it possibly be more? You didn’t know me then, or Aston, or Peter. In that ignorance other people’s lives are always only stories. The images I gave you were like illustrations. If I disappeared from your life tomorrow, that’s all you would have. Images in a story, gestures frozen in a frame.’
‘Well, give me some new image of Peter.’
‘He limps. Badly. From a skiing accident he had a few months ago.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I saw him, some time ago.’
‘I thought he was married now.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you see him alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘In Paris.’
I left the room. I found the lavatory. I was sick. I washed my face then, wrapping a towel around my waist, I walked slowly back to Anna.
She had left the table. She sat smoking a cigarette in a chair by the window. The dark green velvet of the curtains blended with what I now saw was an olive silk gown. Her face, and the waves of her black hair, seemed almost a Renaissance cameo, spoiled by the incongruity of the cigarette.
‘About Paris. Tell me.’
‘Martyn and I checked out of L’Hôtel. After lunch I visited Peter. Martyn went shopping. We met up later.’
So as I lay in a drunken haze in L’Hôtel trying to reach out and catch her presence in the room she had deserted, she had been with Peter.
‘Where did you see him?’
‘In his apartment.’
‘What about his wife?’
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