‘Do you think you’ll make a go of this?’ she asked.
‘I hope so. And I don’t see why not. It’s the sort of story that should have a pretty wide interest. It’s got the human touch. I shall need some photographs to go with it, of course.’
She said this was no problem; she had plenty. She promised to bring a selection for him to look at.
‘It’ll have to be the day after tomorrow. Same place, same time?’
‘That’ll be fine,’ he said.
Chapter Nine – THE PUSH
He had made a first draft of the article, and he brought a copy for her to read when they met again.
‘It’s only a rough outline,’ he said. ‘I’ll probably have to make a few cuts, because it’s rather long. And it could do with some tightening up and re-writing here and there. But read it and see what you think.’
They were in the National Gallery again. There was a Rubens dead in front of them: lots of plump female flesh with a rustic setting; but they had no interest in the painting.
She read the typescript while he examined the photographs she had brought. They were professional jobs and it was going to be difficult to choose the best; they were all good. She was nothing if not photogenic.
She finished reading and looked at him.
‘What do you think of it?’ he asked.
She said: ‘You’re pretty good at this sort of thing, aren’t you?’
‘You think so?’
‘Oh yes. It’s easy to read. It goes very smoothly. It’s – well – most professional, if you see what I mean.’
He did see what she meant, and it pleased him. She had used the word he had applied in his mind to the photographs. The compliment gave him more pleasure coming from her than it would have done if it had been offered by a more qualified critic.
‘Is there anything you’d like altered?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘There’s nothing important I’ve left out?’
‘No. You seem to have got it all in.’
‘Well, like I said, it may have to be cut. But I’ll let you see the final version before I submit it anywhere.’
That way, he thought, I get to see her again. And I’ll go on seeing her to give progress reports. Things could not have been going better from his point of view. And all because of that spur of the moment suggestion he had made at their second encounter.
Soon he was seeing her almost on a regular basis. It cut into the time he could spend on his other writing, but he did not care. There appeared to be no other man in her life at the present time, and this was a fact that he found quite remarkable but which pleased him greatly. She seemed to enjoy being in his company, and he was never so happy as when he was with her.
She had told him that she was living in a flat but she had never invited him to visit it. One evening, however, he took her to see his place in Rosetta Avenue. She gave it a pretty thorough inspection but made no remark, and her expression was enigmatic. He waited for some verdict, but when none was forthcoming he said:
‘Well? What do you think of it?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s all right, I suppose. For you.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Nothing. Didn’t I say it was all right?’
‘Yes. For me. Why just for me?’
She smiled. ‘Now I’ve upset you, haven’t I?’
‘No, you haven’t. I’m not upset.’
‘No? Well, what I meant was it’s not exactly a luxury suite, is it?’
He admitted that it was not. ‘But it’s the best I can afford. I’m a struggling free-lance writer, remember.’
‘Yes, of course. But one day you’ll be rich and famous, won’t you? Then you’ll be able to live in style. Rolls-Royce, private yacht, holidays on the Riviera, that sort of thing. Promise you’ll take me with you.’
‘I promise,’ he said. ‘But by that time of course you’ll be rich and famous too. You and me, a couple of millionaires.’
They both laughed, sharing the impossible dream; the dream that so many people had when they were young and hopeful and disillusionment had not yet come like a winter frost.
He introduced her to the Lakoses. She thought them odd but charming. They took to her at once. She had that way with people, making them like her on sight; or, as in his case, love her.
‘It is so nice,’ Petra said to him next day, ‘for you to have a young lady. And she is so sweet, so attractive, so chic. As I say to Peter, she will be just right for him. They are a perfect pair. That is what I say, and he agrees. We are so happy for you.’
‘Thank you,’ Sterne said. ‘That’s very nice of you. But she’s not really my young lady, you know. I am writing her story as a magazine feature. It’s a business arrangement, nothing more.’
She gave a knowing smile. ‘Oh, of course. Oh, indeed yes. And the way you look at her and the way she look at you, that is also a business arrangement? Come, come, David! Do not imagine you can pull the wool over my eyes. You must remember I am clairvoyant. But there is no need of clairvoyance to see when two young people are in love.’
‘So you think she is in love with me?’
‘I am sure of it. Are not you?’
He hoped she was right. He just hoped she was. But he was not so sure. Maybe. But then again, maybe not.
*
He had written the article. He had polished it until it could be polished no further and he had begun to send it out to possible markets. It came back. It came back time after time. After each successive rejection he felt more depressed, and the worst part was having to break the news to Angela that he had failed yet again. She did not say that she was losing faith in him, but she looked disappointed and he felt that she had good reason to be.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have led you on. It wasn’t fair to you. I should have warned you it might turn out like this.’
She was more magnanimous than he might have expected. ‘You didn’t promise anything. I’m certainly not blaming you. You wrote a fine piece, and if all these editors are too stupid to spot a good thing when they see it, that’s their loss. There’s nothing we can do about it.’
‘But it’s such a disappointment for you. That’s what hurts me.’
‘Don’t let it. Life goes on. If the piece never gets into print neither of us will be any worse off than we were before you suggested it. You’ll have lost a bit of time and labour. I’ll have lost nothing, and I’ll have found you.’
He gave her a quick glance, suspecting that she might be making game of him. ‘You really count that as something on the credit side?’
‘Well, for God’s sake,’ she said, ‘what do you think?’
‘I think I’m in love with you,’ he said. And kissed her.
‘I was beginning to wonder whether you’d ever get round to that,’ she said. ‘What kept you so long?’
‘I don’t know. Fear, maybe.’
She stared at him. ‘Fear! Of me?’
‘Of a brush-off.’
‘Oh, my poor David,’ she said, laughing, ‘what am I to do with you?’
‘Anything you like,’ he told her. ‘Anything whatever except give me the boot.’
*
The typescript was beginning to look somewhat travel-worn, and he decided to hammer out a fresh copy on the old L.C. Smith, which itself was getting a bit rickety. Amazingly, this did the trick at once, though it might simply have been coincidence. The time might just have come for the work to find a home.
He had to admit when he told Angela about it that the home was not very grand. It was a weekly magazine called Women’s View and it was not one of the leaders in its field.
‘It’s rather down-market, I’m afraid.’
‘Never mind. At least it’s something.’
That was about as much as could be said for it, he thought. It was not going to make her a star overnight. In fact, as matters turned out, it had quite the opposite effect.
Three day
s after publication of the feature Angela turned up at the flat and said: ‘Can I have a word with you, David?’
He thought she looked somewhat depressed, and he was surprised to see her because this should have been one of her working days; but he would have been pleased to see her at any time.
‘I’m not interrupting your writing, am I?’
He had in fact been working on a story, but it had not been going well and he was not sorry to have an excuse for breaking off; especially this excuse. He closed the door and invited her to sit down.
‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’
‘Oh, you don’t need to bother.’
‘It’s no bother. I was about to have one myself.’
‘Then I will have one,’ she said. ‘I need something.’
This sounded odd, even rather ominous; but he went into the kitchenette and set about making the coffee, leaving her seated in one of the much-worn armchairs and looking the picture of dejection.
He brought the coffee and said: ‘I thought you were on duty today.’
‘Well, I’m not,’ she said. She drank some of the coffee and added: ‘And I won’t be on tomorrow or the next day or the day after that.’
‘Oh God!’ he said. ‘You don’t mean –’
‘Yes, I do mean it. I’ve had the push. I’ve been slung out on my ear.’
‘Oh no!’
‘Oh yes!’
‘But why? You were one of the best. Damn it, you were the best. Why would they want to get rid of you?’
She drank some more coffee, hesitated, and then came out with the whole story. It appeared from what she said that the management had taken umbrage at something in the Women’s View feature about her. In the first place they said they should have been consulted before she went ahead with it. She should have asked for their approval; which was a lot of nonsense, of course. And they considered that parts of it were derogatory; they showed the Windmill in a bad light.
‘And because of that they gave you the sack?’
‘Yes.’
He found it hard to believe. He could think of nothing in what he had written that had been at all critical of the Windmill, and he had a feeling that there must be more to it than she had revealed. Perhaps there had already been friction between her and the management, and this had been a handy excuse for getting rid of her. Her next words seemed to give some confirmation of this suspicion.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’m not sorry. There was bound to be a flare-up sooner or later. I could see it coming. And now it has.’
Once again she drank some coffee and looked pensive.
‘It is a bit awkward, though.’
‘In what way?’
‘I’m skint.’
‘Ah!’
He thought this must be an exaggeration, but when she had outlined the situation he could see that it was not far from the truth. It appeared that she had always spent her money as fast as it came in, and there was nothing put by for a rainy day. She was in arrears with the rent of her flat, and her pay-off from the Windmill had been only just enough to cover this debt. So she could not stay there any longer.
‘I really am in a fix.’
He could see that this was indeed so if everything was as she had related it. And it had to be. She wouldn’t be lying to him, would she? He dismissed this thought as unworthy.
She said hesitantly: ‘I was wondering if – just for a day or two of course – to give me a chance to take a look round and get things sorted out –’
She paused, looking at him, waiting.
He would have had to be pretty dense not to see what she was driving at. And he didn’t have to think twice about it, because nothing could have pleased him more.
‘But of course,’ he said. ‘Of course you can stay here. You can have the bedroom and I can use this old sofa. It’ll be no problem at all.’
Her depression seemed to vanish in an instant, as if he had waved a magic wand and banished it.
‘Oh, David,’ she said, ‘that is sweet of you. But of course you must have the bedroom. The sofa will do for me.’
‘No, no. I won’t hear of it.’
‘Well, we’ll see. We’ll work something out.’
*
He went with her to lend a hand when she collected her luggage. There were two suitcases and a smaller bag. Neither of the Lakoses was anywhere to be seen when they returned to the house, so there was no necessity to make any explanation to them for the present. Tomorrow would be soon enough for that.
‘You really are being ever so sweet about this,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’
‘Well, if it comes to that, it’s no more than I owe you. If I hadn’t suggested writing that damned feature you’d never have got the sack and none of this would have been necessary. It’s all my fault. Don’t you see?’
‘No, you mustn’t think that. You couldn’t have foreseen what would happen. So there’s no reason at all for you to feel bad about it. I’m not blaming you at all.’ She gave a mischievous kind of smile and added: ‘Anyway, I think I may rather like it here when I get used to it.’
This seemed to be an implication that she was planning to make her stay last rather longer than the day or two she had originally mentioned. He noticed this but did not remark on it.
*
He discovered that sleeping on the sofa was a pretty wretched business. It was a piece of furniture which had never been designed for that purpose: it was both too short and too narrow, and it was impossible to get the bedclothes to stay in place; they kept sliding off on to the floor. It was well past midnight before he came even near to dozing off, and then a creaking sound brought him fully awake again.
A gleam of light was coming from the bedroom, and he guessed that the sound had been made by the opening of the door. And then a shape drifted into his line of vision and he saw that it was the girl. She was wearing a suit of pale blue pyjamas and she moved noiselessly to the sofa and stood looking down at him.
‘You are awake, aren’t you?’ she said.
‘I haven’t been asleep.’
‘As I thought. Me neither, actually.’
‘Bed not comfortable?’
‘Oh the bed’s fine. It’s not that. I just keep thinking about you out here on this wretched sofa, and I feel so guilty.’
‘There’s no need to.’
‘But I do. So don’t you think it’s just a little bit silly when the bed’s perfectly big enough for the two of us?’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘when you put it like that I suppose it is.’
‘So hadn’t we better do something about it?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘perhaps we had.’
Not that he found it any easier to get to sleep in the bed – for quite a while at least. There seemed to be so much else to do; so much that was far more enjoyable; that was in fact the very peak of ecstasy.
‘Aren’t you glad,’ she whispered, ‘that I came to you?’
‘That,’ he said, ‘is a question that hardly needs an answer. But I’ll give one just the same. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.’
Chapter Ten – A DIFFERENT STORY
Peter and Petra Lakos had no objection whatever to Sterne’s sharing his flat with Miss Street. They were entirely without prudery in that respect. They thought it was very nice for him.
‘Such a charming couple,’ Petra said. ‘It warms the heart to see two young people so happy.’
She was sorry to hear that Angela had lost her job, but was confident that she would soon get another one. In a way Sterne hoped that she would not; at least not for a while; since he would have less of her company if she did. But he saw that the present situation had its drawbacks, the chief of which was financial. She was earning nothing, and for the present he was having to provide for the two of them. This was all very well for a few weeks or even months, but it could not go on indefinitely. He was having to dip more and more deeply into his meagre capital, even though he was selling more
stories and had established himself as a regular contributor to the Bury and North Suffolk Morning Post. These ‘London Letters’ from ‘Our Own Correspondent’ earned him a guinea apiece, which was useful but not riches.
He did not mention his money worries to Angela. She must have realised that he was not making a lot of money, but she might not have guessed quite how slender his means were. She was paying frequent visits to her agent, and occasionally he would fix up an audition for her, but so far nothing had come of these.
‘It’s a tough profession,’ she told him. ‘Survival of the fittest.’
‘You could say the same about writing.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I suppose so.’ And then: ‘Look, David, if I’m being too much of a burden you must say so. I can pack up and go, you know.’
He was appalled by the possibility that she might do as she had suggested. ‘Don’t even think of it. I love having you here; you must know that.’
‘And I love being here. But one can’t live on love alone, can one?’
‘We’ll get by,’ he said. ‘Something will turn up.’
Which, he remembered, was rather what Mr Micawber used to say. And where did it get him?
‘Perhaps we should ask Petra to look into her crystal ball and tell us what the future holds for us.’
‘She doesn’t do that sort of thing. She just makes contact with the other world.’
‘You don’t believe all that rubbish, do you?’
‘No. But don’t ever tell her I said so.’
*
One morning she said: ‘Today, David, I’d like to take you to see my father and mother.’
He stared at her. ‘What are you talking about? Your mother is dead and your father is in Yorkshire.’
She gave a grin. ‘Wrong on both counts, darling.’
‘But you told me –’
‘I fibbed. Sorry, David. The fact is I made it all up. From start to finish.’
A Wind on the Heath Page 6
