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Authors: Margot Livesey

BOOK: Homework
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“So am I,” I said, realising with surprise that it was true. “I could make us supper, if you don't mind some variation of scrambled eggs.”
“Scrambled eggs would be perfect.”
We stopped to buy wine, and drove the short remaining distance to my flat. As soon as I had shown Lewis into the kitchen, I excused myself. In the bathroom I combed my hair—the dampness had made it even frizzier than usual—and patted on a little powder. Then I hastily crammed things into the cupboard. When I returned to the kitchen Lewis was standing at the counter rummaging in a drawer while Tobias wound around his legs. “Where do you keep your corkscrew?” he asked.
“Second drawer down. I can shut Tobias in the living room if he's being a nuisance.”
“No, I like cats. I used to have one before I went to Hong Kong.” He found the corkscrew and opened the wine. The cork came out with a small pop. “Do you live here alone?”
“At the moment. Until a month ago I was sharing with a girl who used to do free-lance editing for us, but she's gone to Geneva to work for the U.N., and I haven't got round to finding someone else.” As I spoke I bent to look in the fridge.
“The older I get,” Lewis said, “the less the idea of sharing a house appeals to me. I can see I'm going to be a thorough misanthrope by the time I'm fifty.”
Soon we were seated on opposite sides of the table with a fried egg sandwich and a tumbler of wine in front of each of us. I asked Lewis where he lived.
“I just moved into a small house in Clapham. It's virtually a ruin, although you wouldn't think that from the price I paid.”
“How small is small?”
He paused to finish a mouthful. “Two up, two down. A friend from Hong Kong who's over on a six-month course is staying in the front bedroom.” He described his trials and tribulations with damp-proofing, while I wondered about the sex of the mysterious friend.
“Couldn't your friend stay home to let the workmen in?” I asked.
“Not really. The course Mike is on is like a job, nine to five, and if he misses a day it's hard to catch up.” Lewis reached for the bottle and refilled our glasses. “Are you in touch with many other people from York?”
“I see Nick and Charlie from time to time and that's about it. What about you?”
We had moved in such different circles that I did not even recognise the names of most of the people whom he mentioned, but I said, “Oh, yes,” and “How is he?” as if I knew everyone. I could feel the wine making my cheeks hot, making me laugh at anything remotely amusing. Lewis mopped his
plate with the last piece of toast, and I asked if he would like a cup of tea.
He glanced at his watch. “I should probably go. It's quite a drive to Clapham, and Mike and I agreed that we would work on the house tomorrow.” He drummed his fingers lightly on the table. Then he said, “Would you like to have supper on Tuesday?”
“Yes.” I smiled and nodded.
“Why don't I ring you to make a plan?”
He noted down my phone numbers, and put on his coat. At the door he gave me a quick, friendly kiss on the cheek.
 
On Tuesday the office was unusually busy. Courier packages arrived on my desk almost every hour, and a number of people seemed to find my opinion indispensable, but nothing could distract me from thoughts about Lewis. As I waited for him to telephone, the minutes oozed by with infinite slowness. I made matters worse by my reluctance to leave the office; at lunchtime I persuaded one of the secretaries to bring me back a sandwich, and before going to the toilet I took the receiver off the hook. I was on my third attempt at a letter of rejection to a would-be author when at last he phoned. He suggested that we meet at six-thirty in a pub near his office, I agreed, and he hung up. The call had lasted all of ninety seconds.
Lewis's directions to The White Knight had been brief, and by the time I located it, in a little courtyard off the main road, I was fifteen minutes late. The pub seemed to be filled entirely with men in dark suits, and as I scanned the room, I wondered if I would recognise Lewis. Before I had taken more than a couple of steps towards the bar, he appeared by my side.
“Thank goodness you came and rescued me,” he said, when we were out in the street. “That place is like an extension of the office. Listen, there's a program on TV about
Hong Kong. I thought we could get a carry-out and watch it at your place.”
In my living room, we sat on the floor, the Indian food spread out between us. Lewis kept up a running commentary: “See that building on the left? That's where my friend Jerry lives.” “The yacht club is on this bay.” “This is the market where I used to buy fish.” The program ended. I carried some of the containers and plates out to the kitchen. When I returned Lewis was sitting on the sofa; he motioned me to join him.
“You're terrific, Celia,” he murmured, and put his hand on my knee. Through my skirt I felt the warmth of his hand. I reached out to touch him. It was not as if he were a stranger, we had known each other for years.
 
It was still dark when Lewis slipped out of bed, and I assumed that he was going to the toilet. Suddenly the bedside light went on. I sat up, startled. He was standing at the foot of the bed, sorting out his clothes. “What time is it?” I asked.
“Six-thirty. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. I have to be at work early.”
“Do you want some coffee? Or toast?” I reached for my dressing gown.
“No, thanks. I'll pick something up on the way to work.”
“It won't take a minute.”
“In a minute I'll be gone. You go back to sleep, Celia.”
An irritable note was creeping into his voice. I lay down and pulled the sheet higher. There was the click of buttons, the slide of a zip. I lay with my eyes closed, waiting for him to come and kiss me. “I'll give you a ring,” he said. Then the light went out, and before I could speak, he was gone.
 
Months later I was still discovering the mistakes I had made at work that day. Changes of tense and person, monstrous
inconsistencies, typographical errors, incoherent examples, all seemed, in my blissful state, fine. I was too busy imagining life with Lewis to be troubled by such minor matters. At five-thirty Gillian came into my office. She was wearing a shiny green blouse, and I guessed that she must have had a business meeting. “Are you ready?” she asked.
Ever since I had joined Fredericks, three years previously, Gillian and I had been going swimming on Wednesday evenings. Now I realised with amazement that I had forgotten what day it was. I blurted out that I had not brought my things.
“Not to worry,” she said. “You can rent a suit and towel, and I can lend you a pair of goggles.” She was so eminently practical that I was ashamed to confess my reluctance.
On the way to the YWCA, Gillian talked about the author she had had lunch with, and I tried to maintain an appearance of intelligent interest. I was glad to reach the pool and be released from the demands of conversation. I swam up and down, doing, with my clumsy breaststroke, one length to every two of Gillian's streamlined crawl. When I lowered my face into the water I could see the bottom with exquisite clarity, and the echoing cries which filled the air became remote and muffled. I remembered Lewis undoing my belt, and the rustling of our falling clothes. “I love the sounds,” he whispered, “like wrapping paper.” I must buy wine on the way home, and bread and milk.
Almost invariably after swimming, Gillian and I went out to eat and spent a satisfying evening grumbling about the idiosyncrasies of our co-workers, so it was a further sign of my distraction that I was taken aback when she suggested an Italian restaurant off Old Compton Street. We were in the changing room, standing side by side in front of the mirrors. I struggled with a knot in my hair, as I tried to gather my thoughts. “I'm sorry,” I said at last, “but I think I ought to go
home and work on the Wheeler manuscript. He's coming to town on Friday, and I've only skimmed it so far.”
“We can make it quick. I promise not to have dessert.”
Awkwardly I insisted on my need to work. Gillian glanced at my reflection; before our eyes could meet, she turned away. While we gathered our possessions together, I agonised over whether to confide in her, but I could not bring myself to do so; she had little patience with men and romance. In the street we parted to walk to our respective tube stations.
As soon as I arrived home I dialled Lewis's number. There was no answer. I took off my outdoor clothes, put away the milk and wine, and tried again. What I had told Gillian was true, the Wheeler manuscript was in urgent need of attention, but I settled instead to watching television and sewing buttons onto several shirts. Every half hour I tried to call Lewis. Finally, at midnight, I went to bed, leaving the living room and bedroom doors open to be sure that I would hear the phone. Some business associates must have kept him out late, I thought; several hours passed before I fell into an uneasy sleep.
Next morning I rang Lewis's office and left a message. For a couple of hours I felt better; then, as caller after caller proved not to be him, I lapsed into despair. Twice I rang back, and each time the secretary's voice seemed tinged with deeper disdain. I did not dare to try again. Fortunately I had agreed to baby-sit for Lynne and Greg that evening. Eve was happy to stay up late and demand my attention.
 
He rang on Friday afternoon as I was getting ready to go home. “Sorry to take so long to call back,” he said. “I've been frightfully busy.”
While he described a difficult client, I cautioned myself not to dwell upon the delay and when he asked how I was, I was able to attempt an imitation of his cheerful tones. “One of my
books came back from the typesetters with hundreds of typos,” I said. “I'm tearing my hair out.”
“But that's not your fault,” said Lewis. “Go and tear the typesetter's hair out. I'll just be a minute,” he added to someone in the background.
When I had gone to babysit, Lynne had suggested that Lewis and I come to supper on Saturday. Now I was glad to have this invitation to pass on; it licenced my several phone calls.
“I'm afraid I'm going to Bath tonight. Listen, how about if we do something on Monday. I'll pick you up about eight. We can go to my favourite Chinese restaurant. Give my apologies to Lynne and Greg and have a good weekend.”
 
When he came round on Monday, we ended up in bed, and by the time we emerged, it was too late to go out. I fetched wine and bread and cheese and we sat up side by side, eating and drinking. “Who were you visiting in Bath?” I asked, as I handed him the Brie.
“Friends.”
“Oh,” I said. “What did you do?”
“Nothing much. Would you like some more?” He leaned over to pick the bottle up off the floor.
I held out my glass. He filled it. I drank a couple of mouthfuls. Then I said, “You sound as if you think I'm Prying.”
“Good Lord, no,” he exclaimed. “I'm still in a daze from the day. Celia, let me tell you about my scintillating weekend in Bath.”
I looked at him.
“Come on,” he said. “Ask me again who I was staying with.”
“Who were you staying with?” I said docilely.
“George and Lydia. George used to be in Hong Kong with me.” For several minutes he held forth in eloquent detail
about his old friends and the beauties of Bath—they had gone for a splendid walk along the river—and I allowed myself to be persuaded.
 
He stayed with me that night and the next, then vanished again for several days. When he reappeared I had decided to ask if he saw other women. I had worked myself up to such a pitch of anxiety that I could not wait for an appropriate moment; I stammered out the question in the middle of a traffic jam on the Fulham Road.
“Of course I do,” he said heartily. “There's my secretary, Mrs. Reynolds next door, Donna at the Alpine snack bar. What's this fellow up to?”
It would have been easy to accept his joking answer, but now that I had blundered into speech I was determined not to be silenced. “You know what I mean. Are you having an affair with someone else?”
“I have some women friends, but not like you.” He kissed me. Immediately the driver behind sounded his horn.
“It seems odd,” I said, “that you disappear for days at a time, and you never talk about what you've been doing unless I badger you with questions.”
“Celia, you'd be bored rigid if I talked about what I'd been doing. Being a banker is not like being an editor. We're expected to be in the office at the crack of dawn, work all day, and then in the evening entertain clients.”
The traffic began to move and soon we were seated in the Royal Court, watching a comedy about high finance. For the rest of the evening Lewis was particularly attentive and charming. In the morning he told me that he was going to Geneva for a week.

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