The Folks at Fifty-Eight (27 page)

He needn’t have worried. The two men sat engrossed in conversation, but then Paslov reached into his jacket and passed something across the table.

Whatever it was, Carlisle clearly found it distressing. He sat studying it in obvious disbelief, with his mouth wide and his shoulders hunched.

An agitated Paslov leaned closer, talking quickly and scanning the surrounding area as he spoke. Carlisle stared blankly back, but then suddenly slammed his fist on the table and stood up.

Paslov seemed unfazed. He leaned forward and spoke with a finger raised. Carlisle returned to his seat. He picked up the item and studied it again. Hammond could see more clearly now. It was a photograph. Carlisle took out his wallet and placed it between the billfolds.

More discussion followed, during which Paslov ordered schnapps from the taciturn waiter. Finally the man from the MGB raised his glass in a parting toast, left the table, and climbed into the back of a chauffeur-driven Mercedes that had appeared from nowhere. The Mercedes disappeared into the evening gloom, leaving Carlisle sitting slumped at the table.

Hammond waited in the foyer until the car dipped out of sight. Then he walked back across the road, studied the ashen features of Carlisle, and barked a question.

“What the hell was all that about?”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

“You look pale. Are you o.k.? Is there anything I can do?”

With colour slowly returning, Carlisle growled an order.

“I said it doesn’t concern you. Now, for once in your life, do as you’re damn well told.”

Alan Carlisle stormed back to the hotel. Hammond sat at the table. With Paslov and Carlisle gone, and the bill unpaid, the taciturn waiter had left the warmth of the bar. He stood hovering at a nearby table. Hammond called him over, ordered another beer, and picked up the tab.

Alan was entirely unfaithful, and always had been. Angela knew that. She had thought of leaving him on more than one occasion. Her parents were wealthy. She could afford to move out and not suffer in any financial sense. But part of his infidelity was undoubtedly her fault, and twenty years of marriage had institutionalized her. She thought about that, too. Was that the truth, or just a convenient excuse? Wasn’t the real reason her abject fear of being alone?

She again looked up at the clock, only fifteen minutes to go, but then she heard the sound of a car on the gravel. It had to be him.

Now she really needed that drink, just to face him, just to look at him, and listen to him, and pretend she was interested in him. To hell with the time. She reached for the vodka, poured a generous measure into a tumbler, took an unhealthy swig and felt much better. Then she topped up the glass and stood waiting for him to appear.

Alan Carlisle opened the front door, threw his suitcase into the hallway, and slammed the door shut with his foot; much the same as always. However, this time when she made the effort to greet him there was no answering smile. He looked tired and drawn, and something else, something she couldn’t quite place. Was it disgust, or fury? Maybe it was both.

In the six weeks since their son had flown to Paris she had tried to repair some of the damage caused by her confused emotions and incestuous intent. If she hadn’t already known it, the look on his face told her there was still some way to go.

“You want coffee?”

He nodded wearily and followed her to the kitchen. She poured a fresh cup and set it down on the kitchen table. He searched her features as he asked,

“So who was she?”

“I don’t understand. Who are you talking about?”

“The young blonde. The one in the photograph, with you and that other dyke bitch.”

Angela suddenly felt cold. It was the one thing she had dreaded him discovering. She felt her legs go weak. She sat down heavily on the nearest chair. Now she knew what that look had meant. She had been right; it had been both.

“Oh God, no. I thought I’d. . .”

“So who was she?”

She looked at the fury in him and struggled to find the words.

“I didn’t know her name. Well, not her real name.”

He spat back at her.

“You didn’t know? You’re telling me that you let some filthy little dyke stick her tongue between your legs while they photographed you, and you didn’t even know who she was? Well, you’d better get hold of the other one and find out, hadn’t you? You do remember the other one, don’t you, Angela? Sarah fucking Pearson, the dyke slobbering all over your breasts, while that little blonde bitch went down on you.”

She continued staring at the floor, unable to meet his glare of accusation and thinking back to that terrible, shameful, and utterly wonderful night.

“What does it matter who she was? It happened, and I couldn’t be more ashamed.”

Contempt dripped from every answering syllable.

“What does it matter? Let me see. I guess it matters when the head of Russian Intelligence in southern Germany shows me a picture of a couple of lesbians gang-banging my wife. I guess it matters when he demands I hand over top-secret details of U.S. Intelligence, or else.”

She buried her head in her hands. It was worse than she’d expected, much worse.

“Oh, Alan, I’m so sorry. I thought I’d dealt with it.”

“And I thought you told me you’d given that Pearson bitch her marching orders. I’m a married woman. Fuck off, you dyke. That was the gist of the conversation, wasn’t it?”

He was right, of course. She had said that. She had been lying then, and just now, when she said she couldn’t be more ashamed, she had lied again. Yes, at the time, she had been ashamed, but she had also been elated.

She couldn’t have told him that, though. He would never have understood.

“Yes, but then I met her again, a few months ago.”

“Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Everything. And this time, Angela, I do mean everything. Not some pathetic tale you’ve invented to save yourself from the shame of your own degeneracy.”

“I didn’t keep it from you for that reason. I did it for us.”

“Well, I would have to say that ‘us’ is the least of our worries right now, so tell me.”

She finished her vodka and reached again for the bottle. He snatched it away. She glared.

“You want me to tell the story or not?”

He nodded. She stared her obstinacy and pursed her lips. He shook his head in obvious contempt, but then handed over the bottle. She took it, refilled the glass, and began her story.

She had bumped into Sarah Pearson while grocery shopping at the local market. At first she had felt awkward, because she hadn’t spoken to the woman since that moment of drunken foolishness on the sofa. Sarah Pearson seemed so different. She said she had missed her former neighbour. When Angela responded with an old-fashioned look, Sarah said she hadn’t meant it like that. Angela had stupidly believed her.

Sarah Pearson spoke proudly of her new life. She had separated from husband Archie, and fallen in love with a young woman. She apologized for the circumstances of their parting. She hadn’t meant to upset Angela. She’d had too much to drink that day; they both had. Sarah swore she had changed. She seemed sincere. She invited Angela to meet the new woman in her life. The offer seemed innocent. Angela agreed to drop into Shelley’s bar later that day.

When Angela arrived at the bar, Sarah Pearson led her to a table in the corner. Sarah introduced the young woman as Cat. When Angela queried the name, the girl laughed, and meowed, and pretended to claw Sarah with her nails. Angela thought she seemed fun.

Alan Carlisle interrupted.

“And she was American?”

“No. Sarah said she was Danish. I didn’t think anything of it, because she was blonde, you know, Scandinavian-looking. She had that same-sounding European accent.”

“But later you found out that she wasn’t Danish?”

Angela nodded. She said the girl was slim and attractive, fresh-faced and outgoing, with blue eyes and short blonde hair. No, that was a lie; the girl was more than attractive. She was stunning, but she was also in love with Sarah, or so Angela believed at the time.

Alan Carlisle sneered. He was surprised to hear she was still an admirer.

Angela shrugged. She said everyone in the bar had admired the young blonde, or at first, but then the girl grabbed Sarah and kissed her on the mouth. That was when the mood in the bar changed. The two women seemed oblivious of the disapproving stares from so many previously-admiring faces. They sat holding hands and told her they had rented an apartment in Alexandria with views of the river. They seemed so happy. Even when they asked her to come with them to see the apartment and the views, she hadn’t suspected.

The apartment was on the third floor of an old block, the decor bland, but the views lovely. It boasted a balcony overlooking the river, and so they sat outside drinking wine. Dusk was falling, and behind a blackened and eerily-motionless river the city lights were coming on.

The blonde went to the lounge and put a record on the turntable, some mellow jazz, with a slow and haunting saxophone that perfectly described the mood. Then she came back to the balcony, but didn’t return to her seat. Instead she began swaying to and fro, sipping at her wine, and allowing the music to take control.

Whether it had been the view, or the wine, or the music, or the girl’s intoxicating presence, she didn’t know, but Angela found herself disturbingly aroused and imagining all manner of shameful scenarios.

When they went back into the lounge, Angela made a show of leaving. She said she had to go. The girl looked deep into her eyes and asked her to stay. The girl said they should all have supper together. The invitation had been innocuous, but her eyes had spoken of so much more.

That was when Angela finally accepted the truth of all those thoughts she’d kept hidden for so long. Her heart was thumping and her body tingling. She felt dizzy and light-headed, like a schoolgirl with a teenage crush. She felt confused and embarrassed and nervous, and was thinking thoughts and experiencing emotions she didn’t think she would ever think or feel.

She didn’t know what to do, or what to say, or what to think. She wanted to leave, to get out and run away, but she couldn’t stop trembling, or tear her eyes away from the girl.

So Angela stood transfixed, watching the girl and waiting for her to make a move, knowing the girl would have her that night, knowing, too, that there was nothing she could do about it.

Alan Carlisle shifted on his chair. He said he didn’t want to hear any more, not all the sordid details. He’d seen enough of that in the photograph.

“You did before.”

“Before was different, a sexy game. This is just plain sordid, sad and desperate little women, poking their fingers into each other.”

Angela stared her hurt back at him. It hadn’t been like that. It hadn’t been sordid. Maybe it became sordid, but at the time it was erotic and thrilling.

She said she wanted him to know how she felt, and why it had happened. She said maybe she got a kick out of telling him and arousing him, or maybe she just wanted him to know that she could still function as a woman, even if it was only with teenage boys and other women.

He nodded and said he understood. His tone patronized. His remarks annoyed. Suddenly she was furious. How could he possibly understand any of the emotions she had felt? For the first time in almost twenty years, her knickers had been wet. For the first time, in so very, very long, she had wanted another warm, soft, beautiful human being to hold her and touch her and kiss her, and yes, she had wanted the girl to fuck her. . . Was that so terrible?

“What with? A couple of fingers, or six inches from the neck of an empty wine bottle?”

She saw the jealousy and anger in his face, and, for the first time in twenty years, she saw something else: she saw cruelty. She said he had a right to be angry, but he had never been cruel. They’d had their differences and problems over the years, but he had never been that.

She tried to make him understand as she listed the misery of almost two decades without love and tenderness and physical release. Eighteen years of holding back the tears and hiding her feelings. Eighteen years of pretending to the world and lying to herself. Eighteen years of refusing offers she secretly wanted to accept. Eighteen years of going home alone, and sleeping alone, and having imaginary lovers climb into her bed at night. Eighteen years of touching herself when nobody else was there, and imagining what it would be like. Eighteen depressed and frustrated and bitter and empty and desperately lonely years.

The tears began to stream. She couldn’t stop them. He looked contrite

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be. . . So, what happened?”

“You said you didn’t want to know.”

“I shouldn’t have said that. It was wrong of me. Of course I want to know.”

She sniffed, wiped away the tears, and returned to the story.

She didn’t understand why, but the girl reminded her of Mathew. Both had such beautiful symmetry to their bodies. They were almost Adonis-like, delicately formed and precisely proportioned, with beautiful features, clear blue eyes and soft blonde hair.

He asked if that had been when the problems began with Mathew. She wasn’t sure. It had been about then. She said God only knew what a psychiatrist would make of it. She wondered if she had been trying to prove she wasn’t a lesbian, to herself if nobody else. Maybe Mathew reminded her of the girl. She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure what she had been thinking at the time. She was less sure now. She shrugged her confusion and returned to the story.