A Bouquet of Barbed Wire, page 12
She said, ‘Tomorrow I shall feel just the same but I won’t let it affect my work. There, will that do?’ She held her breath.
He burst out laughing. ‘Oh Sarah, you’re ridiculous and lovely.’
‘Yes, I am, aren’t I?’
They had parted on her doorstep without further kissing, but easily, like friends who know they will meet again.
* * *
Manson’s time to think came on the train, which he nearly missed. Leaping from his taxi, which had been hard to find, dashing through the barrier and down the platform, flinging himself into a carriage and slamming the door just as the train began to move, he had no time to think, beyond registering that he was out of breath and out of condition. Somehow this made the scene he had just been involved in all the more unreal. If Sarah could see me now, he thought ruefully, surveying his fellow-passengers, the usual crowd of late-night tired and late-night rowdy. Some boys, a little drunk, were playing cards and telling jokes, but with an eye on two girls sitting demurely in a corner and pretending not to notice. The older passengers sheltered behind newspapers or stared out of windows, though at this time of night it was easier to see a reflection of the carriage than the scenery outside.
He found he had a dual reaction. Part of him was appalled and amazed at having gone even this far. The words ‘taking advantage’ hammered in his head: poor girl, after all, what could she do? Wined and dined and then virtually pounced on by her boss: there was not a lot of leeway for resistance or repulsion or whatever she might have felt. He had put her in one hell of a spot. How would he ever know if her reaction had been genuine? At the same time, while despising himself heartily he felt an enormous sense of exhilaration, as if re-born. He had forgotten he could feel like that. The pressure of Sarah’s body against his, the taste of her mouth, so different, so foreign, so unlike Cassie—another perfume, a smoother tongue and small sharp teeth—was it just the novelty he had found intoxicating or Sarah herself?
He had not been unfaithful to Cassie since she was pregnant with the twins and ill. He had felt badly about that, though he tried to convince himself that what she did not know could demonstrably not hurt her, and in reality he was doing her a favour, allowing himself to return to her relaxed and free of tension, better able to cope with the situation. But it had troubled him all the same. He was simply not cut out for that kind of thing; he never had been. Always out of his depth and vaguely distasteful—not disapproving (for after all other people’s behaviour was their own affair) but, yes, repelled—in groups discussing masculine prowess. He could not regard any woman cheaply, as a conquest, did not want to boast of the few he had had, could not cope with the lies and evasions involved. Which made it all the more absurd to be even attempting to create such a situation now. It could not possibly lead anywhere; he did not want it to, anyway. It could not even be a pleasant interlude, if he were to be once again haunted by the complications of a double life, however slight; and to add to that an office situation, to risk losing a perfect secretary under embarrassing circumstances which he had himself created—he must be out of his mind. At the very least he had made a fool of himself. At worst he had ruined a professional relationship. What was the matter with him? Was he turning into the sort of middle-aged man who could not keep his hands off young girls? The image was unpleasant to him: he remembered publishing a novel on the subject once, and had only just let himself be swayed by the power of the writing and the insistence of Rupert’s predecessor. All his instincts had clamoured to reject it. When the hero, if such a term was appropriate, had ended up in court, in the papers, under analysis, he had felt sickened at the humiliations that resulted from a few foolish, greedy actions. He had not understood how any man could be desperate enough to place himself so much at risk.
So why now did he not feel similar revulsion? Or rather why, while feeling it, did he also have this amazingly light-hearted sensation of joy, a conviction not of folly terminated or disaster averted, but of something important just begun? He was surely not contemplating going on with it, even if Sarah were willing, which must be unlikely, however tactfully compliant she had been. But he felt so ridiculously sure that here was something he had been looking for without even knowing. It was the same sensation that he got on seeing a picture or a piece of furniture that would be ideal for his study—only wildly intensified, out of all proportion. He needed Sarah, as distinct from wanting her. In the taxi when he kissed her, despite all the strangeness of an unknown mouth, there had been an overwhelming sensation of recognition. He needed her as much because she was familiar as because she was new.
When he got off the train he collected the car from the station car park and drove slowly home, still mindful of his alcohol content. (‘Publisher on drunken driving charge.’) It was not till he got into the house and found a postcard from the South of France that he remembered there was somewhere he could have gone with Sarah.
19
THE FLAT was cool and shuttered, but he was still hot with surprise at finding himself there. The chain of events was simple. Sarah had been as good as her word at the office: punctual, bright, unembarrassed. He had been grateful to her and felt that she deserved some acknowledgment of her attitude so he had said, ‘Sarah, you’re marvellous and I owe you an apology.’
Sarah said matter of factly, ‘No, you don’t. I told you I’d feel the same today and I do. But I’ve no objection to being told I’m marvellous.’ Then she had gone on calmly typing.
At eleven she brought his coffee without any sign of awkwardness and as she put it on his desk he said, ‘Sarah, you really are making things very difficult for me.’ Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘A little outraged indignation would be much easier to take.’
She said, ‘I’m sorry but I did warn you.’
He drank some of the coffee. ‘I’m supposed to be driving down to Salcombe tomorrow to bring my wife back—she’s taken the boys down there to stay with their grandparents.’
‘And you’re busy this evening?’
He looked up in surprise. ‘No.’ He saw tenderness and anxiety and hunger in her face and another look also—that suggested she was puzzled by her own behaviour. And that makes two of us, he thought.
She said, ‘I can’t bear to leave it like this.’
He said, feeling his blood begin to race, ‘Sarah, you are either very kind or very foolish, tell me which,’ and she said with a kind of desperation, ‘Neither, neither.’
He got through the rest of the day in a daze.
About five, by arrangement, they left the office separately and met round the corner. Already they were starting to be careful. He hailed a taxi, trying not to look nervously round for spies, and when they were in it they sat and held hands, not daring to kiss, and smiled at each other.
He said presently, ‘You’re mad.’
‘I hope it’s catching.’
‘I mean we’re mad.’
‘That’s better. Isn’t it lovely?’
The taxi crawled. He took in for the thousandth time every inch of the brown and gold flowered dress above golden-brown knees. Her hair was tied back with a piece of the same material. He said, ‘I think you’re a miracle.’ An authentic feeling of insanity had swept over him: the situation was predestined and right, nothing could spoil it; he had complete trust in the madness of it all.
Sarah said, ‘Where are we going?’
‘Regent’s Park. A flat near Regent’s park.’
‘Whose is it?’
‘A friend’s. They’re away.’
He turned her hand over and over in his own. Small and square. Nails shiny-painted, uncoloured. The lines very firm and marked. He said, pretending to read them, ‘Ah, a long and happy life.’
‘I should hope so.’ She smiled back. Her light-hearted lack of guilt reminded him of Prue (‘Daddy, I’m going to have a baby.’) Perhaps that was true innocence: if you did not see any harm in something, then for you it was harmless. Or was that rather the corrupt reasoning of the totally selfish, determined to have their own way? The first chill thought. He brushed it aside.
Sudden pressure on his hand. ‘Don’t be sad.’
‘I’m not.’
‘You were. I saw it in your face.’
‘All right, I was. But it’s gone.’
She shook her head. ‘It hasn’t really. But I’ll make it go.’ Now she held his hand in both hers. ‘Look. This isn’t going to make trouble for anyone—you, or your wife or me. I’m quite realistic and I don’t expect anything. But I think this is something we need very much. Both of us. I think it would be worse not to do it. Really.’
‘You’re a witch.’ It bothered him that both their minds should run upon the same lines of self-justification.
‘No. Just realistic. Please don’t be sad. Look—if you’ve changed your mind you can still stop the cab, throw me out. I’ll quite understand.’
‘Do you want me to?’
‘No.’
‘Neither do I.’
The taxi drew up before the curving row of white houses. She was impressed. He paid the driver and she said, ‘God, they must be very rich, your friends.’ Up the steps and inside across endless yards of carpet to the lift: up, purring almost silently. He became apprehensive. None of the neighbours knew him yet, he was safe there, but what if for some crazy reason—anything could have happened—they had returned home unexpectedly?
The flat was silent and empty. Very cool after the taxi and the street. They stood in the hall and looked at it.
Sarah said, ‘It’s lovely.’
‘Yes, it’s quite nice. Rather small but otherwise all right.’
‘And to be so near the Park …’ But the chat petered out. ‘Oh please—please kiss me or I shall run away.’
He put his arms round her. ‘Sarah, Sarah.’ He found he wanted to use her name more and more as if it expressed and held within itself all the words of love he could not (yet?) use. ‘It’s all right, it’s all right, do you hear? You can’t run away now, I want you so much, I need you. Sarah—beautiful Sarah.’
They kissed for a long time, until Sarah, drawing breath, said, ‘Please can we go to bed now or I shall fall over,’ and indeed as he loosened his hold on her she swayed against the wall. The bedroom gave him an odd qualm, a sense of intrusion, of invasion almost, but strongly mixed with a sensation of triumph and justice. He watched her as they undressed and she was very beautiful; he said so. She said, ‘Don’t, you’ll make me cry,’ and he took her in his arms to lie down, saying, ‘You’re a funny girl,’ and she said, ‘It’s no good pretending I don’t do this often, because I do; but it’s also no good pretending this isn’t special, because it is.’ And after that they did not talk much.
They took time to explore each other; he felt that he owed her a lot and must control his impatience. Her pleasure repaid him amply; she did not hide anything and her movements and the look on her face were enough to reward an eternity of effort. When he paused to take precautions (a lunch-hour visit to the chemist, the first in God-knows how many years) she stopped him, saying, ‘No, that’s all taken care of,’ and when he entered her they both groaned with delight and relief at achieving something so long delayed. He tried to make it last, tried to be controlled and expert, but it was soon too much for him and she seemed so nearly ready that he could not wait. It was not perfect, in the end, but for a first time it was remarkable. With her he felt free to let go, which amazed him; in the few extra-marital affairs of his life he had always felt a last veil of reticence, even in extremity. He had never known if this was a hard core of fidelity to Cassie or a buried resentment towards his partner of the moment. But he did not feel that with Sarah. Perhaps it was the confidence with which she entrusted herself to him. When he had regained his breath he kissed her all over her face and her shoulders and neck and said, ‘Sorry, not perfect,’ and she said, eyes closed and a rapturous smile on her face, quite sufficient to drive him out of his mind, ‘No, but still super.’ He laughed then with relief, and said, ‘What a child you are.’
She made a face. ‘Funny children you know,’ and they both began to laugh hysterically, quite out of proportion to the joke. It was a long time since he had laughed so much after making love, and it brought it all back, the crazy hysterical well-being and good-will. It was youth, or novelty, or love, or a blend of all three, but she had made him remember it and it was intoxicating. He played with her hair; he had never seen it all loose before. It made her look younger. They drew apart and admired each other. She was golden all over except for the pale bikini imprint; he said, enviously, ‘You’ve had a holiday,’ and she said, ‘Yes, in May. In Italy.’ He was suddenly quite sick with jealousy and said, knowing he had no right, no right in the world, ‘Did you make love there?’ and she said simply, ‘Yes,’ and he wished she had lied. It was a time when nothing could be concealed: not just that their eyes gave them away but their very skin seemed transparent and revealing. She said, ‘I’m sorry you mind but I never pretended to be pure,’ and he did not answer. He made a great thing of lighting a cigarette and lay there admiring her honesty and hating her for it. She said, ‘Go on, say it,’ and he pretended not to know what she meant. ‘Go on, tell me that’s why I’m here, call me names if you like,’ and he pulled her to him, close, and kissed her shoulder and said, ‘Oh, Sarah, Sarah,’ because it was at that moment the most beautiful name in the world. She said in a muffled voice, ‘I’m terribly afraid I’m going to fall in love with you, but I won’t let it interfere with my work,’ and suddenly they were laughing again and it was all right. He did not even mind that his body next to hers was pale and there was a thickness round the middle that he was ashamed of, whereas she was all bones and correctly placed curves. Her breasts were more full than he had expected and her waist curved in sharply; her hip bones stuck out either side of a flat little stomach. He looked all the way down and found beautiful legs and the most tiny perfect feet, like the feet of a child who has never worn shoes. Naked, he thought she was as neat and precise as she was with her clothes on. He remembered her saying that her room was always tidy and he thought that in some way her body was tidy, too.
* * *
Sarah said, ‘Shall I make coffee or get us a drink or something? Would your friends mind?’ He was so silent that she wondered if he had fallen asleep and as usual she was beginning to feel restless now the languid phase had passed. In a little while she would be hungry. This was the unfailing, predictable pattern and it was reassuring that this still remained, for there seemed little else to be sure of. She had not expected anything to happen between them, not expected to be here, most of all not expected to feel so much. She could not remember such immediate involvement with anyone since the boy in the sixth form (when she was in the fifth form) who had touched her up pretty thoroughly behind the science block one dark night at a school dance. She had adored him after that, as a god (for surely anyone who could produce such sensations must be a god?) and waited, trembling, scarcely breathing, for him to approach her again for a date. But he never did. Term ended and he left and she never knew if he was embarrassed, disgusted, indifferent, or merely absent-minded. It had taught her a sharp lesson, intensified by other later lessons, yet somehow perhaps the most important because it was the first, because she was only fifteen. The glorious sensations behind the science block, her gratitude to him for evoking them, her desperation to go out with him—all this she had obviously failed to transmit; or, if transmitted, it simply did not interest him. Perhaps he regarded her as cheap. Perhaps he laughed about her to his friends. (This thought was too terrible to contemplate: that he might be boasting of what she had ‘let’ him do, even now while she was recalling the beauty of it all.) Lying awake at night crying—but softly so as not to alert her parents—or staring at him in Assembly, willing him to smile at her, writing his name on pieces of paper to admire the sheer poetry of it (and then tearing them up) walking a discreet distance behind him and his friends to admire what seemed to her the easy grace of his movements, so casual, so self-possessed—all this was clearly ridiculous and achieved no good at all. She had made the mistake of caring. Not to care was the answer. If you did not care they came running, all the people you did not care about. They jostled each other to dance with you, walk with you, buy you chocolates and take you to the cinema—one had even left flowers on her doorstep and then run away—and all you had to do was permit the occasional kiss (or, later, make love). As long as you did not care, back they came. So what was she doing now, letting all this feeling creep in? For it was not, she decided, what you did behind the science block that counted, it was how you felt. If you did not care, they could not hurt you; in fact they would not even try. For eight years this policy had worked for her; what on earth made her think it was safe to abandon it now?
She turned her head on the pillow to look at him and said softly, ‘Peter Eliot Manson.’
‘What?’
‘I thought you were asleep.’ It was nice to speak as tenderly as she felt. She had forgotten how nice it was.
‘No.’ He opened his eyes and they gazed at each other. ‘Why did you say my full name like that?’
‘I don’t know. Well, I’ve typed it often enough but I’ve never said it.’ And making love she had not called him anything: while the ‘Sarah’s’ multiplied, she had not called him Peter or darling, or anything.
‘Well, now you have.’
‘Yes.’ She considered it. ‘It’s a lovely name. Very formal. Rather Victorian. I like it. But I don’t feel it’s mine to use.’
‘You don’t know me well enough, hm?’
They smiled.
‘Well, in a way, no. And tomorrow it’s Mr. Manson again so I better not get in bad habits.’
Tomorrow was Cassie and Salcombe. Tomorrow was office. Tomorrow was reality, making now into only last night. ‘Don’t remind me,’ he said.
