East Into Upper East (29 page)

For the past few years Pauline had considered herself comfortably off. She had built up her business and was able to pay herself a good
salary out of it. But now, after losing several clients—she told herself the market was bad—her income was declining. This was especially unfortunate now that she had begun to pay Sylvie a salary, which, after negotiation with Theo, turned out to be almost as high as her own. Often there was nothing at all going on in her office, so that on several afternoons she had just locked up and gone home. She always went hopefully, but when she arrived, Sylvie was either not there, or she and Theo were together in the second bedroom where Pauline could not disturb them. She didn't even let them know she was there but tiptoed out again and went to a movie she had no particular desire to see. At such times, she remembered other homecomings, evenings in the past before they had moved in with her, when, after a long busy day in the office, she had lain on the sofa in her old wrap with a gin martini she had mixed for herself, savoring her silence, her solitude, her peace. Now she had no peace—whether they were home or not home. She didn't even have it when she was away from them, in the office or alone at the cinema, because of thinking about them all the time, wondering where they were, what they were doing; wanting to be with them.

But even when she was with them, she still found herself alone. Sylvie and Amy always seemed to have so much to do—their laundry, Amy's homework, cooking their gruel which needed hours of stirring—and also so much to discuss, arguing and, more and more nowadays, fighting with each other. They continued to be careful to keep their voices down, so that she could never make out what they were saying, however hard she strained to do so. And that was all she was capable of doing now—straining to hear what they were saying, to discover what they might be up to. It had become impossible for her to concentrate on anything else, like her accounts or a book. If some old friend telephoned, she hardly had time to talk, she was so afraid of missing something going on between Sylvie and Amy.

More than anything, Pauline looked forward to the Sundays when Amy was away at her grandmother's and she could have Sylvie to herself. But on each of these Sundays Sylvie became progressively more miserable. She sat hunched in a corner of the sofa, twisting a strand of hair between her fingers, and staring ahead with large scared eyes. If Pauline suggested one of their usual outings, she declined—terribly politely, the more remote she was the more
polite. She said Theo or Amy might telephone and she didn't want to miss their call. They never did; and when, perhaps desperate with waiting, she herself dialed their number, she put the receiver down before anyone could answer. “They don't want to be disturbed,” she explained; once she said, “His mother doesn't like me to phone.”

The resigned way she said this angered Pauline: “How long are you going to stand for this?”

“What can I do?” Sylvie said. “We have no money. Only she has.”

“And what I give you? Your salary?”

“You're so kind, Pauline,” Sylvie said, courteously acknowledging what could only be considered a mere trifle.

Pauline bit her lip—to her it was not a trifle at all; in fact, the way things were, she had difficulty paying it. But she longed to be able to say that she would increase the amount, that she would give Sylvie as much as she wanted—suddenly she said, “You know everything that's mine is yours;” but she blushed scarlet and was breathless, as if this statement had been literally wrung out of her.

“I do know it,” Sylvie said with sincere gratitude. “We're such a burden on you, Pauline—yes we are—but I promise you it's only for now. Like Theo says, we only have to wait.”

“Wait for what? For his mother to die—that's what you're waiting for, don't tell me.” Sylvie hung her head in shame, so that Pauline's heart was filled with pity and she said, “We don't
need
Theo's mother.”

Sylvie raised her head and stared at Pauline: “Who's we?”

“You and I—and Amy of course.”

Pauline waited for her, expected her to say, “And Theo?” But she did not. His name may have hung in the air, but it was not spoken. Pauline welcomed this silence, which she interpreted to her own advantage.

By the first of the next month, Pauline found herself in trouble. Her rent was due for the office, her maintenance for the apartment, she had to have her own salary and the amount she had agreed to pay Sylvie. She did not know where anything was to come from; she had made no deals for the past four months and the business account had run very low. She considered all the payments essential
except her own; and for this latter, to cover her domestic expenses, she was forced for the first time to break into her savings. She did so with a heavy heart. Her savings were sacrosanct to her, they were her future, her freedom from friends, family, from all the world except herself; they were the ground on which she stood. However, for one month it wouldn't matter; she would try not to spend more than was necessary to keep their household going. It was easy to do without a new summer outfit, and also she wouldn't be taking her usual vacation in the Berkshires this year. She always stayed in a good hotel, which she could afford on her own but would be excessive for three of them—that is, if Sylvie and Amy would consent to accompany her, which they probably wouldn't. And she knew that, without them, she would not be able to derive her usual joy and consolation from her holiday, her solitary walks in the cool woods, her morning coffee under a maple tree on the summery green grounds of the hotel.

Two months later, there were still no deals, and the office account had reached an all-time low. By taking an overdraft, she might just be able to squeeze out the rent and the maintenance, but the salaries, hers and Sylvie's, would again have to come out of savings. She had already taken a substantial cut in her own salary; and she was now trying to broach the subject of a possible reduction in Sylvie's too. “Only for this month,” she was planning to plead. “Only till the next deal comes through.”

To say this, she had waited for the Sunday of Amy's visit to her grandmother. But Sylvie was so edgy—waiting for the phone to ring, dialing and then putting down the receiver—that Pauline could not find an opportunity all day. In the evening Amy returned in a very bad mood. Although she handed over her pocket money as usual, she did not spread out her presents for Sylvie to see but locked herself into the second bedroom, so that Sylvie had to stand outside, calling softly for admittance.

Pauline said, “What's the matter?” And when Sylvie parted her lips so that her teeth showed in a smile indicating everything was fine, she went on, “Then why has she locked herself in?”

“Oh you know,” Sylvie said with the same smile.

“I wish I did,” Pauline said.

Sylvie moved away from the door. She arranged a flower in a vase, then patted a cushion or two, to show how happy and comfortable
she was here with Pauline in the apartment. But soon she was back by the bedroom door, calling through it, “Let me
in
,” in a way that made Amy open the door, though only just enough for Sylvie to slip in.

Pauline stooped to put her ear against the keyhole; she felt she had to do it, low and mean though she considered it to be, for the sake of their future. But soon she didn't have to listen at the keyhole, their voices rose enough for her to hear. And then they screeched in such a way that Pauline felt compelled to thump on the door, and when they failed to answer, she tried the handle—it was unlocked, the door flew open, and the two stood revealed, each tugging at a hank of the other's long blond hair.

Pauline rushed between them, and though herself receiving some pinches and slaps, managed to separate them. They stood on either side of her, looking away from one another, both of them flushed and pouting with angry self-righteousness. And to Pauline's repeated inquiry of what had happened, each tilted her chin in the other's direction: “Ask
her
.”

“Yes, ask her,” Sylvie said at last. “Ask her why she's so mean and horrible.”

“I'm not giving it,” Amy said. She glared at Sylvie and Sylvie looked back at her with the same face. Amy said, “All you ever do is give it to him! And he just keeps it for himself.”

“Oh wicked, wicked,” Sylvie said, bating her breath at so much wickedness.

“Then what's he do with it? Why doesn't he do what he promised for ages and ages? With my money and with what Pauline gives you?” And in response to Sylvie's shushing sound, she stamped her foot and cried, “I don't want to have a secret any more!” Tears of rage were in her eyes.

“I'm sorry, darling,” Sylvie said. “I've upset you. It's my fault.” To Pauline she said, “I keep forgetting she's only a child.”

“You always say that when I want something you don't want!” Amy brushed at her cheeks, ashamed of the tears that had begun to roll and were of sorrow now more than rage.

Sylvie started forward to embrace and comfort her. But Pauline remained between them; she even stuck her elbow out to prevent Sylvie from approaching Amy. And it was Pauline herself who embraced Amy and encouraged her to bury her face in Pauline's
bosom. She pressed Amy's head against herself so that she could not raise it to meet Sylvie's imploring gaze.

Most afternoons, since Sylvie was busy with Theo at that time, Amy was brought home in a car pool; but on that following day Pauline again shut her office early and waited for Amy outside the school. Amy's mood was still sullen; she hardly greeted Pauline and walked beside her, kicking at the sidewalk. But Pauline had a treat in mind for her. She took her to a palatial new hotel with a lobby that was all gold and glass and flowers in purple vases as tall as Amy. The tea-room was upstairs, reached by a curving carpeted staircase, and it made Amy gasp at its beauty. Golden angels floated in a sea of glass and crystal; they played lyres and wore garlands of plaster of Paris fruits and flowers wound around their ankles. Although the lyres were inaudible, celestial sounds came from a lady harpsichordist in a chiffon gown. The waiters were handsome and dressed as for a wedding; one of them held Amy's chair for her, but before daring to sit on it, she whispered to Pauline: “Do you think I'm okay?” She was in her uniform and was rather grimy from a day of working and playing at school.

“You're fine,” Pauline assured her. She had never seen Amy's eyes shining so brightly.

“Wouldn't Sylvie love it here,” Amy said, looking around with those eyes.

“Yes, I wish she were with us. But I guess she's with Theo.” Pauline watched the brightness fall from Amy's face. But Pauline pressed on: “They're together every afternoon, aren't they, when you're at school and I'm in the office. Do you think they have a lot of secrets they don't want us to know about?”

“They've got one secret and I know about it.”

“I don't,” Pauline said.

A waiter smilingly held out a silver tray of little sandwiches to Amy who took one in a very refined way and said, “Thank you,” in the same way. Pauline encouraged her, “Take more than that, they're so tiny.” Amy did so—it was a ham sandwich, but Pauline did not tell her.

“I don't think it's nice when people have secrets from their
friends,” Pauline said. “I think friends should tell each other everything.”

“Yes, but if they've promised their other friends that they wouldn't—” Amy frowned as one trying to grasp and state a metaphysical problem.

Pauline said, “Oh of course, no one must ever break a promise.”

Amy frowned more: “But what if they break
their
promise . . .”

“I'm sure they wouldn't. What are you doing?” For Amy was taking the tops off her remaining sandwiches to examine the contents.

“I want one like the pink one I ate. What was it?”

“I think it was tomato. Take mine.” Pauline put her own ham sandwich on Amy's plate. She said, “They love you too much ever to break a promise they've made you.”