Part 7 (1/2)

”Back to Max.”

”Does he know about us?”

”He doesn't want to know.”

Suddenly his voice was full of contempt.

”He's a spineless man. What about the others? Cleave must be climbing the b.l.o.o.d.y wall!”

She was startled by this outburst. From sleepy indolence he had suddenly reared up fiery with resentment and scorn. She knelt beside him, kissing his face and his neck, stroking his head, murmuring words of comfort. He shook his head, shook off his irritation, and calmed down. He was suddenly unwilling to let her go. He had to know when she'd be back. He said he needed her. She lay down beside him and took him in her arms. She had never known him like this before, she had seen him almost from the start as the outlaw, the artist, grinning, fearless, pa.s.sionate, free. Now she understood the shape her life must take: frequent trips to London on pretexts that would arouse no suspicion. She didn't care how difficult this was going to be.

I was not surprised by this sudden vulnerability. Jealous men are inherently weak. They are terrified of being abandoned. Despite her protests he came with her when she left. He had regained his good temper and there was no more drama. Clinging tightly to each other they walked up to the nearest busy street, where he waited smoking in the doorway of a pub while she flagged a cab. The heat was less oppressive now. She watched him through the rear window of the cab as he emerged from the doorway, threw away his cigarette, and turned in toward the river again. He was wearing Max's linen jacket, she realized, and also his trousers, cinched tight around his waist with a narrow leather belt. It made her smile whenever she thought of it.

The next Friday Nick met her again and now she saw him as her ally, her go-between. He drove her to the warehouse, and this time she noticed the name of the street, it was Horsey Street. As she climbed the staircase to the loft she was barely aware of the gloom, the creak and sag, the sharp foul smell of a neglected building that now housed only outcasts and vermin. She clattered quickly up the last flight, opening her coat, and went straight in. He came loping toward her, like a great wolf, she said, and again they spent the afternoon in bed, and again the time slipped by absurdly fast. She'd brought him clothes, soap, and whisky, and they'd drunk a fair bit of it. When she came down the staircase into the studio she was unsteady, and she stumbled pulling her skirt on. All that alcohol on an empty stomach; she had a strong head, but not without any lunch inside her. When they walked up Horsey Street to look for a taxi, and she had some slight trouble moving in a perfectly straight line, she realized she must get control of herself before she arrived home. The object after all was to resume her invisibility; this would hardly happen if she came home sloshed from shopping.

She had a black coffee and a sandwich in Victoria then walked up and down the platform until the train was due to leave. She sat by an open window inhaling deeply then found the whole thing ridiculous and shut the window and lit a cigarette instead. Of course she was not drunk.

She got off the train and made her way to the car park. She started the car and let out the clutch, and it leapt backward like a startled gazelle and promptly stalled. She restarted it and carefully backed out, this time without mishap. She drove home slowly and with fierce concentration.

She came straight into the kitchen and stood at the sink drinking cold water. Fortunately Max was not back from the hospital. She must go upstairs and have a bath before she saw him. She turned from the sink and was startled to find Charlie sitting at the table, swinging his legs and watching her. His gaze was clinical.

”Darling! How long have you been here?”

”Not very long. Where have you been?”

”I had to go up to London again. Why?”

He continued to watch her carefully as she drained her gla.s.s of water.

”Are you drunk?” he said.

”Of course not! Why on earth did you say that?”

”Your eyes look funny.”

She was in the bath when Max got home from work. She heard him downstairs talking to Charlie. When she emerged she was feeling entirely presentable. She was bathed and powdered, she'd brushed her teeth and scrutinized her eyes for any sign of the drunkenness that Charlie had apparently detected in them, and could find no evidence at all. She would dress, go downstairs, and start preparing dinner, and all would be just as usual, a typical night at home, en famille en famille, in the deputy medical superintendent's house. She was after all the invisible woman.

Not altogether invisible. She wandered from the bathroom into the bedroom, her light dressing gown open over her bare skin, and found Max there. He was in his black suit, and he was standing at the window by her dressing table, gazing into the garden. He turned as he heard her coming in, and she pulled her dressing gown closed and knotted the sash.

”Here you are,” she murmured. She went to him and kissed his cheek, then sat at the dressing table and began to apply a cleansing cream to her face. As she did so she glanced up and met his eye. He was frowning.

”Sit down, darling,” she said. ”Talk to me. Tell me about your day.” She didn't like his manner. She felt a p.r.i.c.kle of alarm.

”Where have you been?” he said.

She put down the pot of cream. ”Where have I been? You know where I've been, I've been shopping in town. What is it, Max?”

”Tell me the truth.”

”I am telling you the truth. Why on earth wouldn't I? I'm sorry, I don't understand. Tell me why you're interrogating me like this.”

”Show me what you bought.”

A long pause here. She sat at the dressing table, half turned toward him where he had settled on the bed. They stared at each other and there was a sort of nakedness, she said, in the moment. She said nothing. She was as strong as he was at these naked moments; all his insight, all his psychiatric expertise, none of it could penetrate her womanly s.h.i.+eld. Still without a word she turned back to her mirror and resumed applying cold cream to her face. It was a mirror with a movable wing on either side; she adjusted them so that she could watch him. He did not move from the edge of the bed. By giving him her back she intended to tell him she would try and ignore what he'd said. She would a.s.sume he didn't intend to insult her. She was offering him the chance to apologize. He did not apologize, however. His face remained as cold as steel.

”Show me what you bought,” he said again.

Without a word she wiped her fingers on a tissue and rose to her feet. She crossed the end of the bed to the cupboard that ran the length of the wall by the door. She opened it at her end and stood on her toes to reach a box on the shelf above the dress rack. The box was wrapped in gift paper. As she came back to the dressing table she tossed it onto the bed.

”What's this?”

Still she said nothing. She went on applying cream. There was a hint of uncertainty in his voice now, but she was silent.

”I'm going to tear the wrapping,” he said. Her face was close to the mirror, but not so close she couldn't see him take the wrapping off. He managed not to tear it. Inside he found a long cardboard box.

”Harrods,” he murmured. He opened the box. He folded back the leaves of tissue paper. He lifted from the box a pair of silk pajamas. He turned from the pajamas to the dressing table.

”Are these for me?”

All the anger had drained from him. She swept out of the bedroom, pausing at the door to say: ”Who the h.e.l.l do you think they're for?”

She slammed the bathroom door and locked it. She waited. After a minute or two she heard him go downstairs; he didn't attempt to apologize through the locked bathroom door. She went back into the bedroom and dressed.

When she got downstairs Max was in the drawing room. She made straight for the drinks table and poured herself a gin; she was certainly sober by this point, and in need of a large one. He crossed to the door and closed it.

”I am a fool,” he said. ”I'll tell you what happened. Charlie said you came home drunk and I constructed a fantastic scenario. A scenario of infidelity. An apology's in order.”

She sat in an armchair and drew out his discomfort for a few more moments. At last she spoke. ”Charlie told you I came home drunk?”

”Yes.”

”I will have to talk to him. No, on second thought, you will. How dare he, Max? And how dare you? How dare you come upstairs and accuse me of infidelity because that child has a malicious imagination?”

”I feel very foolish. I'm sorry.”

As she sipped her drink she watched him. ”I don't think that's enough. This worries me. This summer has been a terrible strain. You didn't notice it, but while all the fuss was going on this house was kept clean and meals appeared on time. Who do you think managed all that? Not your mother.”

”I know.”

”You may know now, but it's the first time you've acknowledged it. I saw how difficult it was for you. I don't think you thought for one moment about what I had to do. And And with your mother in the house.” with your mother in the house.”

”The timing was unfortunate.”

She snorted. ”It certainly was.”

She was angry now, and enjoying herself. Max paced back and forth, frowning. He had once told her he always learned something from their arguments.

”Why did you buy me pajamas?”