A Bouquet of Barbed Wire (20 page)

‘No. You’re not worried at all. I can’t understand you.’ She marched on, at such a pace that he could hardly keep up with her. They were heading in no particular direction.

‘Of course I’m worried,’ he said, as she seemed to want him to be. ‘That’s why I want you to stay, so we can talk.
After all, I’ve got much more to lose than you have, if she talks.’

That was a mistake. She tightened her lips and said sharply, ‘Yes, your wife and your daughter and your reputation. And what about me? I only lose you. That’s nothing, I suppose. Oh, I feel so shoddy. So bloody
cheap
. No one’s ever made me feel cheap before. Well, that proves it, doesn’t it? It’s not what you do that counts, it’s who knows about it. It’s all idyllic till someone finds out. Then it’s cheap. You keep telling yourself it’s all beautiful and harmless but it isn’t. It stinks.’

He grabbed her arm. ‘Now stop it. Listen to me. First of all it isn’t like that at all. Nothing’s any different. We’ve been unlucky, that’s all. But if you just think about it for a moment—that girl may say nothing. She may think it’s too embarrassing to mention. Or she may think Prue gave keys to someone else—why not? But even if she does mention it—yes, all right, let’s face it, suppose she does—she still doesn’t know who we are. She can only describe us and Prue’s never seen you. Why should she jump to the conclusion that the man was me? In fact what could be less likely?’

Sarah said morosely—but, he thought, with a faint note of hope—’Then what
will
she think?’

He couldn’t answer that. Instead he said, ‘Come and have that drink.’

* * *

In the pub she downed two brandies rather fast and he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. He chainsmoked, but only sipped his drink, wanting to keep a clear head. They were silent at first, but the warmth of the room and the presence of other people was soothing, pushing back the nightmare quality which had pervaded the street. Presently she said, ‘I’m sorry I got so worked up.’

‘Darling.’

‘I was scared.’

‘I know. And I love you.’ Somehow it was important at this point to say it. He knew it was valid, though he felt a twinge of disloyalty without knowing to whom.

She stared at him in amazement. ‘You don’t mean that, and you don’t have to say it. I don’t expect it. You know I don’t.’

‘I mean it. I love you and I want to protect you. I don’t want you to be worried and upset. That’s why I was so happy when you laughed.’

She looked at him gravely. ‘I don’t think I understand you.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I just don’t want you to have problems, that’s all.’

She smiled. ‘Well, I have.
We
have. We’ve just been caught in the act. Or had you forgotten?’

‘All right. So let’s sort it out. Even if the worst happens and that girl describes me to Prue, the description could fit almost anyone. Remember, Prue won’t be thinking of me. She doesn’t know I’ve got a key, for a start. How could it be me? Why should it be?’

Sarah drank some more brandy and gave a half-hearted smile. ‘What then? Burglars?’

He laughed. ‘Possibly.’

‘Burglars making love?’

‘Well … sexy burglars then.’

She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t work. And how did they get in? Three floors up, no broken glass, no locks forced. No.’

‘Previous tenants who kept their keys. Came back for a final fling.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m not doing very well, am I? I just want you to stop worrying about it. After all it’s my problem, not yours.’

‘That doesn’t say much for togetherness, does it?’

‘Darling, there are some things it’s better not to share.’

‘Perhaps. But there’s so much of your life I don’t share already.’

‘That cuts both ways, you know.’

She ignored that, but it registered as the first vaguely possessive remark he had ever made. ‘There’s another point. If that girl tells Prue, she’s bound to tell you. Even as a “guess what happened, isn’t it extraordinary?” story. And then what will you say?’

He considered. ‘I shall be amazed and horrified and advise her to change the locks.’

‘And that’s all?’

‘What else can I say?’

‘Are you sure you won’t give yourself away?’

‘Yes.’ But he wasn’t.

She shrugged. ‘Well, I hope to God you’re right.’

They tried to talk of other things after that, but it did not work. He could still feel the tension in her like an electric charge, even after four brandies. Finally she got up, rather unsteadily and said with a kind of nervous politeness, ‘I should like to go home now.’

‘All right, I’ll take you.’

In the cab he put his arm round her and after a little momentary stiffness she leaned against him and rested her head on his shoulder. He kissed her hair. Once again he was amazed, after all that had happened, how strongly he wanted her. It made all that had gone before seem like mere flirtation. He said, ‘Promise me you won’t worry. Get a good night’s sleep and don’t worry about a thing.’

She said vaguely, ‘All right.’

‘There’s a good girl.’

She was silent after that for a long time, so silent that he thought she was asleep. Many years ago Prue had fallen asleep in his arms many times and he had carried her to bed,
being careful not to wake her. Now he wished he could do the same for Sarah.

As they neared the flat she suddenly stirred and said, ‘I don’t know what we expected; something like this was bound to happen. We were asking for trouble.’

He turned her face to him and kissed her, saying, ‘Do you wish we’d never begun?’ and saying it safely because he could feel from her response that she did not.

‘No. I’ll never wish that. But even when you say you love me, what does that mean? You love me and Prue and your wife—’ he noticed she never used Cassie’s name—’and there just isn’t room for us all.’

‘But that
is
how people love.’

‘I know.’ She looked at him anxiously. He thought the anxiety was a new look he had put in her eyes and he was not proud of himself. ‘But I get so muddled. That’s why I half don’t want you to say it, even though it’s beautiful. I’m not used to people saying they love me and it muddles me. It can mean so many different things and you remember them all and you don’t know where you are.’

The taxi had stopped at her door. He asked it to wait and go on to Victoria. He kissed her forehead and held her face between his hands. ‘Please don’t be sad. I know how you feel but I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’

She smiled, as though partnering him in some complicity. ‘Yes. But don’t you remember what you said before we started, before you believed I wanted to? You said we hadn’t got a prayer. And we haven’t. You were right.’

C
ASSIE PULLED
the rug over her knees. The weather had changed and already there was an autumn chill in the air. August was nearly over. But he liked to drive with the window open, and to have the heater full on made him sleepy. The boys were at last asleep in the back seat, curled up together like puppies.

‘I can’t believe it,’ Cassie said in a low voice. ‘I was beginning to think I’d never get away. That nurse seems a bit of a dragon, don’t you think?’

‘Oh, I expect they’re all like that.’ He did not know what to say: you should have stayed, she’s better off with professional care, it’s about time you came back, by the way I’m in love?

‘I suppose so.’ She sighed. ‘Well, we’ve had a lucky escape, haven’t we?’

‘How do you mean?’ He heard himself being deliberately obtuse again and pangs of guilt seized him, not so much for Sarah as for the last few months which seemed to have established a pattern of evasion whereas before there seemed—perhaps by contrast—to have been total rapport between them. He glanced at her smooth, blunt profile and thought how much he loved her. The steady warmth of that love, sustaining him as it had for so many years, and the painful thrill of being in love with Sarah, so tightly pressed between discomfort and joy, made him aware as never before of the difference between the two states. Some people made much
of this distinction and others ignored it, and for years he had been publishing novels that dealt with the subject or at least touched on it, but all without any sense of relevance to his own life. This seemed to him to make nonsense of work, of professionalism, of involvement. Was nothing real until it actually happened to you?

‘Well.’ Cassie sighed; he had forgotten he had asked her a question. ‘She’s pulled through this time and we don’t have Dad on our hands. That’s a lot to be thankful for.’

‘We’d have managed.’ He spoke easily; it was simple to be magnanimous when the threat had passed.

‘Would we? You weren’t very keen when the boys mentioned it.’

‘Oh, that. I was taken aback, that’s all. I hadn’t considered it.’

‘Well, we’ll have to consider it. Another little do like this and it could be the end. Funny how you always expect your parents to live for ever.’

‘Don’t think about it now,’ he said soothingly. ‘You’ve had a rough time. Just take it easy for a while.’

‘It’s been the longest month of my life.’ She spoke resentfully and he was surprised: her behaviour in Devon had been so perfect that he had never doubted she was willing to be there. ‘But you’ve been marvellous coming down every weekend.’ She touched his arm. ‘I really appreciated that.’

He felt undeserving and guilty. ‘That was the least I could do. You had all the hard work; I just had to drive.’

‘Yes, but it’s a long way. You’ve been looking tired; it must have taken it out of you.’

Her compassion was more than he could bear; it made him long to confess and be abused as he deserved to be; or absolved. ‘I’m all right,’ he said tetchily.

Cassie lit cigarettes and passed one to him; she was trained by years of experience to do this and now could anticipate his needs almost perfectly so that he seldom had to ask. ‘Well, at
least the boys have had a good holiday. Almost too good. I think they were actually beginning to get sick of the beach but of course they wouldn’t admit it. They look well, don’t you think?’

‘Marvellous.’

‘We were lucky with the weather, of course. They’re as brown as berries.’

The expression irritated him: it stuck out like a thorn and impaled his sensibilities. It was meaningless. He doubted he had even seen a brown berry. He grunted agreement.

‘Suppose Prue is, too,’ Cassie went on.

‘What?’

‘Brown. Rested. Sated with holiday. When’s she due back?’

‘I don’t know. You saw the last postcard. Five words of conventional greeting.’ He spoke off-handedly but felt a lurch of the heart at the realisation of how little he had thought of her lately.

Cassie liked the off-hand tone. She blessed Prue’s absence, thinking, Maybe he’s getting over it, maybe he’s accepted it at last. She trembled inside: it was as though she had not realised the extent of the danger until it was nearly past. She said, ‘That only leaves us then.’

‘What?’

‘Who haven’t had a holiday.’ She waited, holding her breath. ‘Peter, couldn’t we? When the boys have gone, I mean. Just take off somewhere, just the two of us. The last two weeks in September, say. We could go to Scotland and take the car. We’ve never done that. Or Paris maybe. Or somewhere hot if you like.’ She was a fiend for heat herself, and Prue had inherited this, but she knew he was not quite as keen and tempered her requests accordingly. ‘It’s a good time to go—not too late but the rush would be over. Couldn’t we?’

He felt a great flood of affection for her, even while registering that he did not want to go anywhere. London already held too much attraction for him. But he thought how much he
liked
her, what a nice person she was, what a good woman. He approved of her; he found her thoroughly admirable. She spoke her mind without nagging, and stood up for her rights without making unreasonable demands. He pulled himself up with a shock, noticing that he was virtually giving her a reference. And he had no idea what kind of holiday Sarah would like. In fact he hardly knew anything about Sarah at all.

‘All right, love,’ he said, with a vague sense of making up for something, however inadequately, even something unknown. ‘We’ll go somewhere. You deserve a holiday.’

‘And you,’ she said. ‘What about you?’

* * *

When they got home, tired as she was, she wanted to make love. He was flattered and rather pleased. She was as warm and responsive as ever and there seemed a sense of extra freedom and release that had been missing in Devon. The presence of the old people, the atmosphere of illness, had inhibited them both as much as Cassie’s exhaustion. Even after all these years they could not relax in her parents’ house with only thin walls to separate room from room. He wondered briefly if Gavin and Prue had felt the same in this house—and then lost himself in giving pleasure to Cassie. She was so easy to please: he knew her so well. Whereas Sarah—well, of course, Sarah was marvellous and exciting and new but—there was always a sense of trying to excel, of being on trial. He was sure it was of his own making, not hers. Something to do with the age gap perhaps, or even the fact that she worked for him, or some hidden element he had not divined. But it was there. However loving she might be, he felt they were involved in a battle for sexual supremacy. This
made him want her again almost as soon as he had had her, long before he was physically capable of doing anything about it, because in some way he felt he had not had her that she always eluded him. She could look at him with all the sincerity in the world but he did not know her.

Cassie said afterwards, long afterwards, when he was nearly asleep and thought she was too, ‘God, it’s good to be home.’

‘W
ELL, I’VE
found you a genius at last.’ Rupert flung the manuscript on his desk and raised an imaginary trumpet to his lips. He was clad in various shades of pink and mauve, which, Manson imagined, were intended to tone, and probably did, if you knew about such things; he could not tell. Then lowering his voice—or perhaps raising it, the effect was the same—to a piercing stage whisper, ‘What’s up with Miss Thing? She looks somewhat doleful, methinks.’