Tales from a Master's Notebook

by Various

  And this word ‘very’, as well as being spoken with great emphasis, was accompanied by something even more unexpected than the remark itself: a slow, effortful wink – one so laboured and unnatural, in fact, that instead of conveying anything in the way of amusement, or conspiracy, it merely looked like the wink of some kind of ghastly automaton, almost as if someone had attached an invisible string to June’s eyelid and was pulling it from somewhere above her head like a puppetmaster. The very sight of it chilled Martin to the bone, and for a moment distracted him from the alarming implications of what she had said. Coming back to that, however, he realised that not only had she addressed a sexually provocative remark to him, she had done so in a way that made absolutely no sense, relying as it did on a non-existent trope about Canadians being good in bed. (At least, he assumed that was what she had meant.) All in all, he had no idea how to respond, so he grabbed himself a bread roll – having ordered no starter – and buttered it studiously while hoping that the conversation would soon move into safer waters.

  All went well for the next few minutes. Oliver had entered upon an intense discussion about genetics with the woman sitting opposite him (a well-known radio presenter), but Martin managed to inveigle himself into it despite his ignorance of the subject, and June was temporarily frozen out. Before long, however, another eruption of laughter from the middle of the table drew everyone’s attention. This time it seemed to be Lionel who had made the joke – Hermione approving it so strongly that she rewarded him with a high-five which somehow ended, quite unnecessarily, with their fingers interlocked and intertwined for a number of seconds. This did not go unnoticed by June, and once again, when Martin caught her gaze, he saw that her eyes were filled with liquid sadness which, after springing up for one unguarded moment, quickly froze over into ice.

  She smiled a brittle smile.

  ‘That does look good,’ she said, nodding down at the partridge which lay before him, newly arrived, uncarved and surrounded by green vegetables.

  ‘I hope so.’

  He began the delicate process of slicing into the meat and separating it from the crispy outer layer of skin. He was acutely aware that June was watching him as he did so, although occasionally she glanced back towards her husband and his young admirer, in whose adoring attention he was still revelling. Martin could feel that the situation was charged with strong, contradictory emotions, but he tried to block his mind to this and concentrate on the tricky task at hand.

  After cutting off two regular, satisfyingly trim slices of meat, he glanced across at June and discovered something that was once again startling: namely, that she had altered her position, and was now sitting at right angles to him, her back to her neighbour. She seemed to have undone two or three buttons on her blouse and pulled the fabric slightly away from her body, thereby offering him a clear glimpse of her navy-blue bra and the flesh it contained. Martin took in the view quickly and then, shocked, looked up at June’s face and found that she was staring at him intently, making no secret at all of the fact that she wanted him to see as much of her exposed cleavage as he cared to take in.

  Perhaps I’m imagining this, Martin thought, as he broke out into a sweat. Perhaps she’s just hot, and wants to allow some air to circulate.

  But the restaurant was not at all hot. And in any case, June’s next words were:

  ‘Mm, doesn’t that breast look delicious? What are you waiting for? Go ahead and tuck in.’

  He had, in fact, been on the point of cutting off his first mouthful of the meat in question. Now he paused mid-incision, trying to formulate a reply to this invitation but lost for words. His eyes locked on to June’s for a few moments, and then hers clouded with shame. She looked away, did up the buttons on her blouse and smoothed her hair back to hide her confusion.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I need the bathroom.’

  In a clumsy and noisy movement she got up, pushed the table back and squeezed past him. Oliver and the radio presenter turned and watched in surprise; as indeed did the whole table.

  ‘She all right?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ said Martin. He chased some peas around the plate with his fork and tried to look as though everything was normal, but privately he was horrified: not just because Lionel’s wife was coming on to him (there could be little doubt about that, now) but also because she didn’t appear to have the first idea how to do it, and – worst of all – was mortifyingly aware of the fact. Her abrupt departure for the toilet made it obvious that she could see how disastrous her latest effort had been. Tonight, it seemed, Mrs Hampshire was determined to attempt the music of flirtation; but clearly she was tone-deaf, and she knew it.

  And yet this was not going to stop her trying, even now. Further incredible attempts issued from her lips throughout the remainder of the meal. When Martin offered her some Brie from the cheeseboard, she opted for Cornish Yarg instead, saying that she preferred to have something ‘hard and satisfying inside me’. Choosing vintage brandy as her digestif, she said that she ‘always liked a stiff one at the end of the evening’. Each of these dreadful double entendres was accompanied by lingering looks in Martin’s direction, followed immediately by averted eyes and blushes of shame, as if she could not believe either her own daring or her own ineptitude. Martin found himself simultaneously appalled by the spectacle, and fascinated to see how it would develop.

  He did not wait long to find out. As the last remnants of food were cleared away, and Lionel’s publicist discreetly settled the bill, Lionel announced that he, Hermione and two others would be moving on to the St George, one of the most exclusive private members’ clubs in Soho. June was not mentioned, and while she seemed to accept this turn of events with equanimity (while being unable to keep her wounded, venomous eyes off the contrarian columnist, whose grip on her husband’s arm now seemed to be unshakeable), Martin rebelled strongly against the idea that they should go without him. Against all the evidence, and all his better judgement, he could not quite relinquish the idea of ending the evening huddled in a cosy corner somewhere – anywhere – with the delicious Hermione. And so, while wriggling into his coat amidst the genial chaos of farewells and Merry Christmases, he said to Lionel, as airily as he could:

  ‘I think I might come along and join you, actually. I feel like a nightcap.’

  ‘Ah!’ Lionel said. ‘Are you a member?’

  ‘No, but I thought …’ Martin tailed off. The truth was, he didn’t know what he had thought.

  Now Lionel smiled his deadliest smile – the one that was dashing and lethal at the same time, and could turn his female admirers to jelly. ‘The trouble is, Martin – it’s very exclusive, this place – even members are only allowed to bring one guest each. So Hermione will be my guest, and Marina will be Jack’s. I’m really sorry, but that’s how it goes.’

  ‘Ah. Yes.’

  In a last-minute display of faux-gallantry, Hermione glanced over at the stricken wife and said: ‘Oh, but what about June? I mean, I don’t want to …’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Lionel briskly. ‘She hates the St George. Will you be all right getting home, darling?’

  He turned to his wife and she gave a miserable nod. Then uttered the astonishing words: ‘Martin and I can share a cab, then.’

  Martin stared at her, speechless. Even Lionel seem baffled by this one.

  ‘But Martin’s in Muswell Hill, isn’t he?’ he said.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So how can you share a cab?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘In what conceivable universe is Muswell Hill on the way to Greenwich? They’re in exactly the opposite direction. Unless you’re coming from Wales.’

  ‘Oh, we’ll sort something out.’

  And with that she took Martin’s arm and propelled him out of the restaurant while the others looked on, dumbstruck. Before Martin could understand what was happening, she had waved down a black cab, and they were speeding northwards up the A1. She sat close besi
de him, breathing heavily, her thigh pressed against his, but she didn’t speak. The warmth and conviviality of the restaurant were already left far behind, a distant, unlikely memory. After a minute or two the silence became unbearable.

  ‘You don’t have to come all this way with me, really,’ he said. ‘I mean, it’s miles out of your way.’

  ‘I want to,’ said June.

  Silence reigned again. The taxi driver’s speaker crackled and his voice came through:

  ‘Which end of Muswell Hill did you want, mate?’

  ‘Corvick Terrace,’ said Martin, leaning forward.

  ‘OK. I’ll swing left through Kentish Town, then.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  June looked across at him sharply.

  ‘Cheers?’ she said. ‘That’s not a very Martin-ish word.’

  He laughed. ‘Yeah, it’s a bad habit. You know how it is – you change your way of speaking, depending on who you’re talking to, I suppose …’

  ‘I suppose you do. If you want to be all things to all people.’

  Having said this, she looked him in the eye for a moment and then shifted her weight away from him, turning to look out of the window at the shops and houses as they slipped by in the dark. Their physical intimacy was over: there was a space of at least two feet between them now. Martin did not know what to make of the gesture. He waited for her to speak again. He waited a long time.

  ‘I do love Lionel,’ June said at last. The words came slowly, but clearly: her voice trance-like, almost robotic. ‘I’ve always loved him, and always will. Ever since we met. He was on a book tour in Canada, just after his big success. I had a little radio show back then, on a station in Toronto. I gave all that up for him, of course. But I was so happy to do it. He was so charming, so British, so … funny. He’s still funny, don’t you think? Have you noticed how he always tries to make them laugh? That’s how he was with me. I suppose I should have expected … After the show, that first time, he asked me out for a drink, and that was that. Five days later I was on a plane to London with him. I gave everything up. Haven’t worked since then, not once. We had the children, they kept me busy, for a while. And then I found myself slipping into this role … his manager, his assistant, I don’t know what you’d call it. Answering his email, filtering the invitations, putting his archive together so we could sell it to America. All because I believed in him, you see. I still do. He’s a good writer, a very good writer. Maybe a great one. And his books are getting better, even if the reviewers don’t think so.’ She turned and stared at him. ‘You reviewed him once, didn’t you?’

  Luckily, before Martin could confirm or deny this allegation, the taxi driver’s speaker came to life again.

  ‘You two warm enough back there? Only some passengers have been telling me the heating system’s on the blink.’

  ‘Yes, we’re …’ Martin tailed off, not wishing to speak for both of them.

  ‘We’re fine, thanks,’ said June decisively.

  ‘Right-o,’ said the taxi driver.

  ‘Cheers, mate,’ said Martin, before he could stop himself.

  Silence was reimposed. Then June continued, in the same somnolent monotone:

  ‘I don’t know if he sleeps with them. That isn’t the issue, really. It’s the invisibility I can’t stand. The way I become invisible to him. It’s not about my age. It’s not about my looks. At least, I don’t think so. I’ve been trying to remember when it started. Or when I started to notice it, which I suppose is not the same thing. Probably about … ten years ago? When the kids were growing up and I was tired all the time and we hadn’t fucked in ages.’

  ‘I can hear every word of this, you know,’ said the taxi driver.

  ‘Then turn your speaker off,’ said Martin.

  ‘It doesn’t make any difference. I can still hear you through the glass.’

  June didn’t seem to mind, in any case.

  ‘Now look at me,’ she continued. ‘Tonight was the last straw. Putting his hands all over that slutty little troll like I didn’t exist. And all I can do is sit there and make these horrible … these pathetic attempts.’ Her voice shook slightly, as if tears were welling up, but she managed to steady herself. ‘You’re right about us. Canadians don’t have a sense of humour. They can’t flirt, either. They barely even know how to screw.’

  ‘Well, I spent the night with a Canadian once …’ said the taxi driver.

  ‘Will you please keep out of this?’ said Martin. Then added, ‘mate,’ as an afterthought.

  ‘I mean, what I really can’t believe,’ June went on, ‘is that I chose you. You. What a dumb choice! Not just for the obvious reason …’

  ‘The obvious reason?’

  ‘The repressed homosexuality.’

  ‘What? What are you talking about? I’m not a repressed homosexual.’

  ‘Well if you’re repressing it, how would you know? Anyway, I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the review you wrote of Lionel’s book. Horrible. Unforgivable. So vindictive, and personal and just so damn … self-satisfied. It was a personal attack on him and so it felt like a personal attack on me as well. That’s how close he and I were at the time, you see: when I read that review, I truly hated you for it. And I thought I couldn’t hate you more until you had the gall, the barefaced nerve to show up at our house and interview him, and then write that fawning, hypocritical piece. So that’s it …’ She stared ahead, her eyes now quite unfocused, quite unseeing. ‘This is where I am. This is who I am. Sitting in the back of a cab with someone I despise more than pretty much anyone, and yet I’m so angry with Lionel that I’d probably suck your cock right now if you whipped it out and stuck it in my face.’

  ‘Just remind me – did you say Corvick Terrace or Corvick Crescent?’ the taxi driver asked, as he braked at a set of traffic lights.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Martin. ‘I think I should get out here.’ And he did.

  Without further comment, the taxi driver made a wide U-turn. He picked up speed as he drove southwards, jumping lights and weaving skilfully in and out of the sparse traffic.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ June said, as he swerved to avoid a bicycle with no lights on. ‘You shouldn’t have had to listen to all that. It can’t be nice to overhear it when your passengers are … losing their dignity.’

  ‘You mean you, or him?’ the driver asked. And then, when she didn’t reply, ‘Anyway, you were wrong.’

  ‘Wrong?’

  ‘About Canadians. Like I said, I spent the night with one once, and she was a right little firecracker.’

  She looked up to see his gaze, mischievous and laughing, reflected in the driver’s mirror. Then June smiled to herself, sank back in her seat, closed her eyes, and no more words were spoken on that long journey home.

  TESSA HADLEY

  OLD FRIENDS

  –WE HAVE TO wait, Sally said, and Christopher took it from her because that was his nature: not malleable, but subtly attentive to other people’s necessities and prohibitions. Perhaps another man would have insisted on his moment in the sun of their passion, would have seized her and carried her off, but he was not another man. Anyway, any carrying-off scenario was bound to be messy, had to include the complication of the children, her children and Frank’s – two boys and a girl, all handsome and characterful and opinionated, all with their mother’s distinctive auburn hair. The older two were taller already than Sally and rather too prone, or so Christopher thought, to bossing her about. Not that she was a pushover: although she was as small and slight as a girl she was resilient, with extraordinary stamina. Other people thought Sally a sweet bland competent good woman, the perfect counterpart to Frank’s noise and bluster and the whole exaggerated scale of Frank’s personal operation, which drew in everyone else like a baggage train dragged after some showy emperor (he was a war correspondent for the BBC). Christopher, however, knew Frank’s wife’s quick, fierce look, her private judgement. Naturally she adored her children and thought them marvello
us, which he didn’t quite, so that he saw with clearer eyes than hers how she fell, in her relation to them, into a performance of deploring and forgiving and being put upon, and how the older two were hardening, as their glossy beauty ripened, into a sense of their entitlement to this. They were also Frank’s children, after all.

  So although Christopher and Sally loved each other, and although he believed they were perfectly suited – eager and diffident, serious, she fitted into the shape of his own serious nature like a nut in its nutshell – they would have to wait, just as if they were characters in an old story. He wasn’t sure what they were waiting for, he didn’t ask, he didn’t want to press her in this place where all the difficulty, it painfully appeared to him, was hers. With women he had always been shy: legacy no doubt of the ghastly school he and Frank had attended together, though it didn’t seem to have inhibited Frank. In his working life Christopher was boldly imaginative; against the grain of a family tradition which favoured PPE and the Foreign Office, he’d become an engineer with his own medium-sized business, manufacturing turbines for renewables. But he had found himself in an unknown, dreadful territory, falling in love with the wife of his old friend. All the falling in love he’d ever done before (he’d even been married for a few years, unsuitably but amiably enough, when he was very young) had been a child’s play compared with the power, and the complication, of this.

  If he hadn’t known what he knew about Frank, and in fact if Sally hadn’t confided in him, appealed to him, made the first move, he’d never have dreamed of doing anything but admiring her chivalrously from a safe distance, and thinking that she was wasted on his friend. But now he was involved, committed up to his neck – over his head, in fact: submerged in her astonishingly. So he had to trust that Sally knew what they must do next, or not do. He waited. And in the meantime they snatched what encounters they could, an afternoon here and there at his flat in town; it could never be often enough, and they had never, at least after their beginning, spent a whole evening alone together, not to speak of a night. He had a business to run, Sally had a family, and she also managed to do something or other part-time for the British Council (which was her cover story, too, when she came to him and left her mother, never undomesticated Frank, holding the fort at home).