‘Yes, you should.’ She tossed her head disdainfully, the tiny pearl-drops in her ears twitching in reproach. He remembered her birthday earrings (pearls as well, ironically) which now sat, unworn, in Penny’s drawer – another source of reproach.
‘Things were difficult – at home, I mean.’
‘So I gathered.’
‘And it was hard to write that letter.’
‘It wasn’t particularly easy to read it.’
He registered the hurt in her voice; lapsed again into silence. It did now seem reprehensible to have ended things between them so abruptly. He had written a second time, in fact, to tell her he was going to Wales, but had kept it short and curt; whereas her second letter had covered three whole sides. Its accusing phrases were flooding back, fuelling his embarrassment and guilt. It surprised her, she had written, in a caustic but still measured tone, that his family meant so much to him – that was certainly not the impression she’d received. Indeed, had he forgotten how he’d begged her to make more time for him, to keep every weekend free, not to book a summer holiday because the two of them must go away together, spend more time together overall? He blushed as he remembered those wild impassioned pleas (usually whispered desperately when he was forced to leave her bed and return guilty but well-gratified to an unsuspecting Penny).
He stared down at the carpet: a thick plush pile in an impractical shade of cream. He had treated them both badly, his mistress and his wife, yet neither had sought vengeance. Penny was still in ignorance, of course, but Juliet could have made trouble for him; even phoned his home and created a furore by revealing the affair. He felt an overwhelming urge to apologize again, to make it genuine this time – ungrudging and unambivalent. Did he dare to take her hand, even prise her from her chair and persuade her to sit beside him? Such gestures had been so easy before, but were now impossible or dangerous.
She appeared to read his mind, forestalled his overture by reaching out her own hand and offering him a cigarette.
‘So you still smoke Camels?’ he observed.
She had changed to his brand a few weeks after meeting him, complaining at first that they were far too strong, and only smoking them on sufferance because she had run out of her Silk Cut. But she had soon become accustomed to that strength and started buying them herself. In fact, it had created a further bond between them, along with their mutual taste in books and wine and music.
She was still holding out the packet, her hand all but touching his knee. He was sorely tempted to take one. A refusal would seem churlish, as if he were rejecting any peace-offering, not just the cigarette. Yet it would be crazy to give in after a full nine weeks of abstinence, not to mention Claire’s encouragement. Claire had helped him more than anyone, praising his strong will and constantly reminding him how much good he was doing himself. He could imagine her disappointment if she were ever to find out; her sense of almost betrayal. But why in God’s name had his thoughts returned to Claire? Her presence in Juliet’s flat only added to his confusion, especially when he realized that he was still seeing his past mistress through her eyes; his excitement undercut by disapproval.
‘Daniel! D’you want a cigarette or not?’
‘N … no, thanks, I’ve given up.’
‘What, again?’ She raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘Yes. And I’m serious this time.’
‘Congratulations! Will it worry you if I smoke?’
‘No,’ he lied, slumping back on the uncomfortable chaise-longue. It was an ordeal to watch her light up. The smell was tantalizing enough, but, worse, it evoked those ritual-times they’d smoked together – after meals, and especially after sex – lying naked on the duvet, still flushed, elated, damp; his heart thumping out its gratitude and guilt. She exhaled a wisp of smoke, which drifted slowly past him, dispersed to airy nothing. Had their whole affair been as tenuous as that, as fleeting and insubstantial?
‘You won’t say no to a drink, I hope?’
‘No,’ he smiled; quite ludicrously relieved that she no longer sounded cross, and was even treating him like a normal guest.
‘No drink, or no “no”?’
‘No “no”,’ he replied. ‘I’d love a drink.’
‘Your usual?’
‘Please.’ The phrase jolted him as the Camels had done. ‘Your usual’ implied that nothing had changed; that those cold, accusing letters had never actually been written; that he was here to take her out to dinner as a prelude to making love. Perhaps she was secretly glad to see him, pleased that he’d come back. Her initial anger had subsided remarkably quickly, considering his audacity in turning up on her doorstep. (He was astonished now that he had ever found the courage.)
Warily he followed her to the sideboard, where she was pouring his Martini; put his hand on her arm; the silky coolness of her blouse enticing him with memories of her coolly naked body. ‘Juliet …’
He stalled. He seemed to have lost the knack of talking to her; could hardly believe they’d once spent hours discussing Africa, or music, or even footling things like the respective merits of Swiss and Belgian chocolate. Yet she hadn’t shrugged his hand off, was standing so disarmingly close, he could see the faint gold down on her cheek, smell her smoky breath.
‘Let’s have dinner,’ he blurted out. ‘I’ll take you to Chez Antoine’s.’ The best restaurant in Hampstead, with prices which would bankrupt him – but what the hell? Somehow he had to bribe her, keep her with him longer.
‘I’m already going out to dinner. In fact, I mustn’t be too long.’ She pushed up her cuff to consult her small gold watch, removing his hand in the process. ‘I’m being collected at eight-fifteen.’
He recoiled as if she had slapped him in the face. So there was another man: a man who liked short hair and had persuaded her to cut it; a man who had no commitments, no wayward wives or moody, silent daughters; a man who bought her earrings and was able to present them to her, instead of using them as a sop to ingratiate himself with his wife.
‘Look, you can’t!’ he almost shouted. ‘We’ve got to talk.’
‘What d’you mean, I “can’t”? You really have got a nerve, Daniel! You finish things between us in the most high-handed way imaginable, then start behaving as if you own me.’
‘I’m sorry, I was wrong – I mean wrong about finishing things.’
She gave a bitter laugh. ‘So I’m expected to follow your every whim, and chop and change along with you? Can’t you see how unreasonable you’re being?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I can. But …’
‘But what?’
‘I don’t know.’ He sank back on the chaise-longue, aware that he was saying things he had never planned to say and probably didn’t mean. He, too, glanced at his watch – a quarter to eight. How on earth could it be so late? He had thirty minutes left with her – less if she got rid of him well before her visitor arrived. As far as he was concerned, his rival was already there, haunting him, disturbing him, overlaying his own traces in the flat – worst of all, displacing him in her bed. No doubt the wretched man could stay the night, make love to her next morning, instead of being forced to leave at some schoolboy hour and sneak ignominiously home.
She was advancing from the sideboard with his drink, leaning forward to give it to him; another waft of her seductive perfume sapping his good sense. He took the glass, then grabbed her wrist, his fingers snapping round it like a padlock. ‘I’ve just got to see you, Juliet.’
‘You are seeing me. You’re here. But there’s no need to hold me captive.’ She shook her hand free, grimacing at the faint red weal he’d left. ‘I’m already hanging on your every word without your having to resort to violence. I just wish you’d get on with it.’
‘It’s not that easy,’ he countered. ‘We can’t pick up where we left off, as if nothing’s happened in the interim.’
‘Well, that’s your problem, isn’t it? No one asked you to come back.’
It would be impossible to talk at all if
she took that hostile tone. ‘Look, all I’m saying, Juliet, is that I need to see you for longer than five minutes.’
Studiously, she checked her watch. ‘We have twenty-seven and a half, which seems extremely generous for someone who told me a couple of months ago that he had nothing more to say.’
He ignored this second taunt, swallowing his pride to plead, ‘Is there any chance you … you could cancel your dinner?’
Her angry exclamation was deserved. He knew the suggestion was preposterous, and only sparked by jealousy. If he wasn’t careful, she’d throw him out. He had better keep away from the minefield of the past and embark on humdrum conversation – find out how she’d been, ask her how her job was. He watched as she returned to her chair, noting with annoyance how she edged it away from his own.
‘So how have things been going?’ he asked.
‘Fine,’ she said, noncommittally, taking a long luxurious drag on her cigarette, as if it were considerably more satisfying than anything he could say.
His next words fared no better, drowned this time by the shrilling of the phone.
‘Excuse me, will you, Daniel? I’ll take that in the other room.’
Decisively, she closed the bedroom door. He suspected it was another man, since she was so keen he shouldn’t hear. Or perhaps it was the suitor expected at eight-fifteen, phoning to say he’d be late – or early – and should he bring red roses (or a priceless antique pendant to match the new pearl earrings), and could he move in permanently?
Look, stop this nonsense, he told himself, appalled at the way he was overreacting. He’d assumed he’d cut all emotional ties, so the intensity of his present feelings had left him severely shaken. He strode to the open window and took a breath of calming air. There was no proof whatsoever that the caller was a man. It could just as easily be Juliet’s aged mother, or a colleague from work, or a casual friend ringing for a chat. He picked up a small bronze on the windowsill – a young child’s head, sculpted with great energy and vigour. That was new, as well. Another gift, perhaps? There was no sign of his own presents, which he had chosen with such loving care. Had she consigned them to the dustbin?
He prowled up and down, the bronze still in his hand, looking out for ‘evidence’ – some clue as to her lover’s taste; some proof the man had stayed there. He slunk into the kitchen, feeling like a trespasser, gave a swift glance round. Everything seemed much the same: no new foods or acquisitions which might point to a frequent visitor who expected more for breakfast than Juliet’s stern morning fare of black coffee and a slice of diet bread. He peered into the fridge: no sausages, no fattening foods, no celebratory champagne. He longed to inspect the bedroom, too, but the door remained firmly shut. He could hear her voice – animated, exuberant, a completely different tone from the one she had used to him just now. She wouldn’t talk to her mother like that, and if it was just a casual friend, why couldn’t she ring them back, explain she had a visitor?
He snatched up The Times, took it with him to his chair and started nicking distractedly through the pages, as he had already done this morning.
‘MORE SEX PLEASE – WE’RE SPARROWS!’
Oh God! Not that again. Every species unfaithful, including cast-off mistresses. He ditched the paper and resorted to his drink, lacing it with self-recrimination. Not only was he overreacting, he was being totally inconsistent and unfair. If you gave up a woman for well-considered reasons, convinced yourself, and her, that there was no future in the relationship, then you could hardly object if she found solace elsewhere.
Except he did object – vehemently – and also felt resentful of the fact that she should be prattling on so avidly, as if she had forgotten his existence. He checked his watch again: two minutes to eight. Her escort would be here in fifteen minutes, unless that was him on the phone. Either way, his own presence in the flat could only be a nuisance and embarrassment. Juliet must wish him at the bottom of the ocean, and he felt much the same about her new companion. He was bound to be young and attractive, with no hint of receding hair – some yuppie in the City who bought his suits in Jermyn Street and owned a private plane, or a dashing trendy heart surgeon with a box at the Royal Opera House.
It would be better if they didn’t meet, to prevent awkwardness on both sides. Yet he couldn’t simply creep away without saying goodbye to Juliet. He paced back to the bedroom door and stood listening just outside, but could hear no sound at all. Was the other person speaking now, or had Juliet rung off at last?
He banged his glass down and began tramping back and forth with deliberately heavy steps, but the noise he made produced no response. Perhaps the call was over and she was lurking in the bedroom to avoid him. Dare he look in, or knock? He remained hovering outside, despising his own vacillation; finally gave a faint tap-tap and opened the door a crack. She lay diagonally across the bed, cradling the receiver; her tight skirt riding up, displaying long black silky legs; her head thrown languorously back, as if she wasn’t simply talking on the phone, but making love to it. She hadn’t heard his knock, so he pushed the door a little further open. She turned towards him, her radiant flirtatiousness capsizing in an instant, replaced by an indignant frown. She held up her hand like a barrier and shook her head in annoyance; both gestures signalling ‘Keep out!’
He backed away, anger taking over from discomposure as he returned to the lounge and drained his glass in one long resentful gulp. He’d been crazy to come here in the first place. Juliet was bad for him; made him act like a jealous adolescent. He would never set foot in her flat again, but would erect a high brick wall around the whole of Woodleigh Chase.
He seized a pen and paper from the bureau, and, still standing up, started scribbling her a note. ‘I’m off,’ he wrote, ‘since you haven’t time to talk. And anyway, I hate to interrupt your busy life.’
He underlined the ‘hate’ three times, feeling that emotion flaring in his chest: hate for his rival, hate for his ex-mistress, hate for his own crass and puerile self.
Chapter Twenty Nine
Daniel fired maltesers into his mouth like a succession of small brown bullets, then crunched them to a satisfying pulp. He was starving hungry, yet he didn’t dare go near a Hampstead restaurant for fear of meeting Juliet and the man he’d already murdered in his mind. He tried to keep his attention on the screen, though the film had started long before he’d wandered in, so he couldn’t make much sense of it. It was trendily obscure – shot in black and white, and sub-titled – and apparently set in pre-war Lithuania. The dialogue was scant and interspersed with moody shots of desolate streets, or sudden startling close-ups of old men’s faces, pocked with grief and stubble. Long periods of silence alternated with wailing bursts from the depressing and atonal score. Even in normal circumstances, he would have found the thing hard going, but in his present state it was more or less impossible. The meagre plot was inextricably confused with the more dramatic sub-plot of Juliet and her co-star. His mind kept jumping from Lithuania to Chez Antoine, wondering if they were eating there, or already writhing between the sheets.
His eyes strayed back for the umpteenth time to the illuminated clock, though its hands moved just as sluggishly as all his clocks at home. No, wherever they had gone to eat, they couldn’t have finished dinner yet; would still be drinking to each other; feet touching under the table, fingers intertwined.
He shook the last Maltesers into his hand, feeling it was insensitive to munch them while the white-haired crone on screen wept for her dead son. (At least he assumed the boy was dead. She appeared to have three near-identical sons – dark, gaunt and tragic-looking – so it was all too easy to confuse them.) It would be even more insensitive to nip out to the foyer and buy an ice or a hot dog, yet he found himself on his feet, blundering down the aisle. There wasn’t much risk of disturbing his fellow cineastes: he was almost alone in the place, apart from one canoodling couple at the back, and a solitary Indian boy.
Blinking in the bright lights of the foyer, he or
dered his hot dog, which was handed to him in a skimpy paper napkin marked ‘Keeping You Satisfied’. The tautly glistening sausage, lying pink and naked in its soft white yielding bed, left him so unnerved that he was unable to bite into it. He returned to his seat in the dark; the warm damp package heavy in his hand. He, too, felt damp in the sweltering heat of the cinema, as if he were sitting in a tropical swamp. No wonder so few people had turned up for the film. There were better things to do on an evening in high summer, and if he had any sense himself he’d be relaxing at home on the patio with an iced drink in his hand and the cool night air restoring him to sanity. He had intended to go home, in fact, even driven as far as the end of the Finchley Road. But then he’d driven back again, unable to drag himself away from Juliet country; his dread of laying eyes on his successor mixed with an overwhelming urge to see the competition. After driving round in circles, cursing Hampstead’s twee congested village, he had finally found a parking-space and stalked into a cinema, reverting to his original plan. And he’d been here for the last half-hour – half-century.
He made a renewed effort to follow what was happening on the screen, though the images seemed tediously repetitive – further combinations of weeping, angst and stubble, accompanied by the keening of a cello. He shut his eyes to watch the second film: Juliet disrobing in the bedroom, her wild dark bush surprising him, as it never failed to do. It was so different from her head-hair: not a glossy well-tamed chestnut, but much darker and unruly, with defiant whorls escaping from her ultra-brief silk pants.
Still clutching his hot dog, he crept towards the exit again; managed to get as far as the street this time. When he and Juliet went out to dinner, they had always made a point of returning early; skipping coffee and liqueurs for more intimate delights at home. Juliet and partner might be doing the same this evening. All he really wanted was a brief glimpse of the fellow, then he’d go home satisfied – or at least with his curiosity assuaged.
Breaking and Entering Page 42
