The Editor's Wife (16 page)

‘Happy, I think. She's got this other bloke, called Nigel, who she sees anyway, on the same sort of basis.' This suited me fine, as I didn't want to take her on full-time myself.

‘That's very modern,' said Diana. ‘Neither of you minds sharing her?'

‘Well, I don't. I don't think he knows about me,' I admitted.

Diana considered this for a moment. ‘You don't feel the least bit jealous of this Nigel character?'

‘No. Should I?'

‘You would if you loved her. You'd be jealous of the ground she walked on. You'd resent every moment you spent apart.' She sounded deadly serious.

‘Surely you and Owen don't feel like that.' It was hard to imagine any such turbulent passions disturbing the peace in Aysgarth Terrace.

‘Not now, of course,' she said, a trifle wistfully. ‘But once.'

I remember one disagreement clearly. There was tennis on the television for some reason, and the camera lingered on Boris Becker's stunning girlfriend in the crowd. ‘Look at her,' I grumbled. ‘I bet she's only interested in him for his money.' It was a casual remark, not representing any deeply held convictions, but Diana flew at me.

‘What do you mean by that?'

‘Well,' I said, taken aback by her combative tone. ‘These tennis players always hang out with women who look like models. I bet she wouldn't look twice at him if he was a bricklayer.' (An unfortunate choice of occupation, as I was working on a building site myself, which brought an unintended flavour of personal bitterness into the matter.)

‘Of course she wouldn't. You might just as well complain that he's only interested in her for her looks.
At least he's got wealth and talent, which last longer.'

‘So you admit that women go for blokes for their money. That's all I'm saying.'

‘It's not
just
money. It's the fact that he excels at something which is attractive. But a good provider is going to be more appealing than a poor provider. That's obvious, isn't it?'

‘God, Diana. That's such an old-fashioned view. It's practically prehistoric. Where have you been?' I spluttered.

‘It's just biology,' she retorted. ‘Nothing controversial about it.' She still had one eye on the tennis, admiring the wealthy and talented Boris Becker no doubt, as if my argument was so elementary that it didn't require her full attention.

‘But modern women don't need “providers”. They're quite capable of earning as much or more than men. That's what you've all been fighting for all these years, isn't it?'

‘Yes, but that's only a relatively recent phenomenon, in evolutionary terms. It's only the Pill that has freed women to compete in the workplace. But the function of all living things is to reproduce, however primitive that sounds. So men want women to be young and beautiful and healthy. Women want men to be strong, brave and successful. One century of social revolution isn't going to change that.'

‘And rich.'

‘Only because modern society measures success by wealth rather than, say, how good you are at killing buffalo.'

‘Such a pessimistic view of human nature.'

‘I don't see why.'

‘Bad news for me, anyway,' I said gloomily. ‘I'm not exactly rich.'

‘Well I'm not exactly beautiful,' Diana replied.

‘Yes you are,' I said. I must have spoken more forcefully than I intended, as I sensed her hesitate, before she gave a little laugh of denial. Fortunately Pinky and Perky came tumbling into the room, shattering the silence with demands for milk and biscuits and cries of ‘Why is that man here again?' which I took as my signal to leave.

I made the mistake of mentioning these visits to Mum one day when I'd been summoned to Sunday dinner, and she was immediately on the offensive.

‘Where's the husband while all this is going on?' she wanted to know, ever vigilant for impropriety.

‘Out at work.'

‘What does he think about it?'

‘Nothing. It was his idea, actually.'

Mum pulled a face. ‘It sounds a bit peculiar to me.'

‘There's nothing peculiar about it,' I protested. ‘I just have lunch and a chat and then I go home.'

We were in the kitchen, dishing up. A no-strings dinner invitation was unusual: meals were more often tied to the provision of physical labour: shed clearance, tile stripping, flat-pack-furniture assembly.

It was a while since I'd seen my parents; although they were reconciled to my ambitions and no longer referred
to me as a dropout, they were still suspicious about my lack of progress and irregular lifestyle, and no longer came to the Brixton house. They had always thought it an insalubrious neighbourhood, and would take it in turns to keep watch over their car from my bedroom window, which made for rather unrelaxing conversation. During one lapse in surveillance the aerial was bent into a zigzag, and they refused to come any more.

‘What sort of husband would encourage another man to call on his wife while he was out?' Mum mused, fishing some limp bundles of asparagus from a saucepan and depositing them on three plates.

‘One who trusts his wife, I suppose. Honestly, when did you get so cynical?'

Mum had turned her attention to the gravy pan, pulverising clods of flour with the end of a wooden spoon. ‘In my day, if a man came calling on a married woman, the neighbours would soon start talking,' she said.

‘Either times have changed, or Owen and Diana live in a more enlightened neighbourhood,' I said, loftily. Her insinuations were beginning to piss me off. ‘Are you really saying a man and woman can't be friends?'

Mum considered for a moment, still harrowing the gravy. ‘Only if they find each other repulsive.'

‘Oh, you are twisted, Mum, you really are. If Owen was at home and Diana was at work, I expect I'd be calling in on Owen. That would be all right by you, would it?'

‘Oh yes. That would be perfectly proper.'

Dad came in to carve the joint – a huge piece of pork
with a roof of blistered crackling. In my parents' world, cutting meat was always A Man's Job.

‘How's the masterpiece coming on?' was Dad's opener, now as ever.

‘It's not. I'm on the building site. Cash-flow problem.'

‘Oh yes, Gerald said a while back that you'd borrowed some money from him.'

‘Did he? Typical.'

‘Have you paid him back?' Mum asked.

‘Not yet. I haven't forgotten. It was only a tenner.'

‘Well don't send it to his old address: he's moved,' said Dad.

‘As we only found out when we called round to see him and he'd gone.' Mum gathered herself up against the remembered insult. Plates were laid down. I was given the biggest, crunchiest helping of pork. Now the lunch invitation made sense: according to the see-saw motion of parental favours, if Gerald was on the way down, then I, inevitably, was on the way up.

‘Where's he gone?'

‘Luckily he'd left a forwarding address,' said Mum. ‘He's living in Purley with a divorced woman called Peggy who's in her forties.'

‘You mean
living with
?' I asked, incredulously.

‘We didn't discuss their sleeping arrangements,' said Mum tartly. ‘And Gerald wasn't very forthcoming, when we'd finally run him to earth. He may just be her lodger.'

‘Perhaps they find each other repulsive?' I suggested.

Mum chose to ignore this remark. ‘Whatever she is,
she's turned him vegetarian already. You might make some discreet enquiries next time you see him. Find out if she's got any children, for instance. I don't like the thought of some unscrupulous woman using him as a meal ticket.'

‘She'd have to have a very small appetite to see Gerald as a meal ticket,' I retorted. ‘He's so tight it's untrue.'

‘He's not extravagant,' Mum conceded, chewing valiantly at a piece of woody asparagus, before discarding a two-inch butt. ‘Although he does always bring me choccies when he comes to lunch.'

The criticism fell cleanly, like the executioner's axe.

IT'S HARD TO
shake off two decades of conditioning in the suburban proprieties: in spite of my indignation at Mum's suspicions, I kept away from Aysgarth Terrace for the next fortnight, a deprivation made easier by an increase in my working hours. I was now doing a six-day week on the site, and managing to put aside a little money from each week's wages to see me through the next period of unemployment. In the meantime, my novel sat neglected on the desk, a sheet in the typewriter abandoned mid-sentence.

One Friday in September building work came to a standstill because of the non-arrival of a lorryload of sand, and I was sent packing at midday. Since it was just a tube ride to Bloomsbury I decided to call on Owen at work, as if to prove to myself my scrupulous impartiality as a dropper-in.

Just as I reached Kenway & Luff, the door opened and a motorcycle courier emerged, so I was able to duck in without having to announce my business to the intercom. I squeezed past boxes piled to shoulder height in the entrance hall, reacquainting myself as I climbed the stairs with that evocative smell of old carpet impregnated with cigar smoke. At the reception desk Bina had been replaced with a Putney blonde in upturned collar and pearls, who was chatting on the phone to one of her friends. ‘Hang on,' she said into the receiver before covering it with one hand. ‘Hellair. Can I help?' she enquired, with the tentative courtesy due to one who, though dressed like a labourer, might just be a distinguished novelist.

‘I'm hoping to see Owen. Is he in?'

‘Nair. He's been out of the office all morning. Is he expecting you?'

‘No. I just called by on the off-chance.'

‘Air. Shall I tell him you wanted to see him, Mr . . .?'

‘Flinders. If you like. It's not important.'

‘Air care.' I could almost hear the ratchets turning as she processed this information. Having satisfied herself that I was not a distinguished novelist, she returned to her telephone conversation. Her honks of laughter followed me down the stairs.

Out on the pavement, I stood for a moment, at a loss, cursing myself for not taking the trouble to telephone in advance, and wondering how to spend the dwindling hours of a precious free afternoon. I decided to take a
slow walk down to the National Gallery, avoiding Charing Cross Road and the demoralising effect of its many bookshops, and perhaps stopping for lunch at a café if funds permitted.

As I walked past the entrance to the British Museum I became aware of a tall woman, dressed in wide jodhpurs (jodhoppers, as Dad called them), riding boots with spurs, and a frilly shirt, falling into step beside me. I didn't notice her face: her costume, so out of place on a London street, had claimed all my attention, and it was only when she said ‘Christopher?' that I realised it was Leila.

‘Hello,' I said, thrown by my initial failure to recognise her. ‘Where's your horse?'

She faced down this infantile remark with a blank stare. I remembered now that she had no sense of humour. ‘I thought it was you. What are you doing in this part of the world?' she asked. We had stopped walking as a concession to our undeclared destinations.

‘I called on Owen, but he wasn't there, so I thought I'd go and waste an hour in the National Gallery,' I replied.

‘I wouldn't bother. It's just tourists and school parties, and those endless water lilies,' she said, dismissing six centuries of Western art with a flick of her skinny hand. ‘Why don't you waste an hour having lunch with me instead?' I noticed that her fingernails were bitten to stumps. This flaw in her grooming, with its intimations of nervousness, endeared her to me for some reason.

‘Er . . . well,' I said, my hand drifting to my pocket.

‘I know. You haven't got any money. Don't worry – I'm
paying,' and she set off at a brisk pace across the road and down Museum Street, arms swinging like a sergeant major's, without waiting to see whether I was following.

I was, of course, not because I liked her especially, but because she represented a link with Owen and Diana, and I would have cultivated any friend of theirs. I was also puzzled and flattered by her unexpected invitation, and curious to see what would happen. Diana had said Leila found me ‘charming', but now as then it struck me as false. The word itself was a Diana-ism: Leila was not, I felt, a woman who could be charmed.

‘Why do you want to have lunch with me?' I asked as I caught up, taking care to dodge that swinging right arm.

‘Why not?' she replied, squinting at me from under a slice of black fringe. Her eyes were almost on a level with mine.

I thought a blunt approach was best. ‘I got the impression you thought I was a bit of a tosser.'

‘What made you think that?' she asked, without any softening of tone or, for that matter, any denial. ‘Because I didn't flirt with you or fawn all over you? I don't do that with anyone. Don't take it personally.'

‘I don't expect women to fawn,' I said. ‘Though it's nice when it happens.' She didn't smile. We crossed over Shaftesbury Avenue and took another side road, emerging at the end of St Martin's Lane.

‘I've never got the hang of buttering people up,' she said. ‘And I don't trust people who try it on me.'

‘Isn't that a bit of a handicap in the fashion industry?'
I replied, and for once she rewarded me with a twitch of the lips. She stopped at a green-painted door between two shops, and pressed the bell. A moment later we were buzzed into a narrow entrance hall leading to a steep staircase.

‘Is this a restaurant?' I asked.

‘No, it's a private dining club.' She led the way upstairs to a reception area with couches and a small bar at which no one was serving. ‘The food's a bit middling,' she said, not troubling to lower her voice, ‘but I can whack it all on expenses, and gin's gin, after all.'