By Flower and Dean Street Page 13

  ‘Oh, not another non-accident.’

  12

  ‘You wanted to get me out of the way.’ For the first time since he’s known her she was wearing a nightdress in bed. He could feel the stinging nylon next to his skin. ‘It’s obvious.’ Sullen, resentful, she hadn’t slept. ‘I mistook your concern. I thought you were worried about me. You just wanted to be with her. That’s why you shut me away.’

  ‘I could hardly be with her, whoever she is. You rang me every ten minutes. Then you show up at dawn.’ He looked at the big professional bandage lying on top of the coverlet. ‘You shouldn’t have discharged yourself.’

  ‘The nurses understood. They thought it was mad I was there at all.’

  He went back to sleep and when he woke it was mid-day. He was full of disgust — dull, satiated. His mouth tasted salty. He had a nasty, sharp twinge of panic. Then fingers started caressing his balls. ‘Please stop!’ He opened his eyes. Christine’s lips were all over him. The muslin bandage was flapping in his face and her breasts wobbled as she went up and down on top of him. Whatever excitement she’d provoked in him asleep fizzled out immediately. Her full lips felt like a suction pump. He closed his eyes and tried to move his body with hers, to make some sense of the awful, desireless void. He used his hands skilfully, he kissed her energetically, he tangled with her short hair, he got on top of her.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Her voice was cool. She, an expert in the tactile truth of love, had not been fooled.

  ‘I think I’ve been overdoing it at work.’

  ‘Well, you certainly haven’t here.’ She gave a crazy laugh, then burst into tears.

  The phone rang and Bunty said, ‘Come and have a late breakfast or d’you want to go to the Hilton? I must see you. I’ve —’

  He put the phone down.

  *

  His mother said, ‘You’re late.’ She was curved over by the cake-stand and her black and yellow dress made her look like a ripe banana. ‘Want something for your hangover?’

  ‘I’m not hungover.’

  ‘You look it.’

  The phone rang and she said, ‘It’s for you.’

  Sighing, he passed between the display of dead cakes and a Marino Marini sculpture.

  Bunty said, ‘I must see you.’

  ‘For heavensake!’

  ‘It’s about the film.’ She sounded offended.

  ‘What about it?’

  He felt a hand on his back and swung to one side. His mother said, ‘Just taking a hair off your back. Blonds now?’

  ‘The Hollywood producer’s coming here in half an hour. Come and meet him.’

  ‘All right.’

  His mother poured him a black coffee. ‘Would you like an Underberg Bitters? Soothes the hangover.’

  ‘No thank you.’

  ‘Dr Williams said I’m dying.’

  ‘Oh do shut up.’ His hair felt greasy. Next he’d be getting dandruff.

  ‘I like your suit.’

  ‘I got it in the Kings Road.’

  ‘Are you going to put your child down for Eton?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She won’t like it.’

  In profile she looked dangerous. Her nose dipped over her chin and her mouth disappeared. He supposed that that was what madness did to you. The mournful eye, the one he could see, was full of craftiness. He needed the other side of her face to balance her up, so he moved in front of her.

  She leapt out of the chair with deadly speed and took hold of his tie. ‘It’s crooked.’

  He froze.

  At close range one or two whiskers hung almost to her chin. Her lemon skin, like a chameleon’s, had changed to match the dress’s pattern and was covered with dark-brown splodges of age like sunflowers. She patted his hair. ‘Wanna talk about it?’ Her lips touched his cheek.

  The kiss stung him into action. He backed to the door. ‘You used to be such a loving boy. Everyone said so.’

  He had to keep her face full front. Then he felt all right. It was when he saw only bits of it that he felt shaky. ‘Goodbye.’

  *

  He felt ill by the time he got to Bunty’s and decided he should go and eat something; but the thought of meeting the producer excited him, so he lit another cigarette and rang the bell.

  These days he not only noticed women’s ugliness but seemed to attract it. Bunty’s hair was straight and lank and hung in two plaits on either side of her face. She hadn’t slept, and for some reason a double chin had appeared. This sudden decline was heightened by her surprising hair style.

  ‘Is he here?’

  ‘No. Not yet. He must be held up. Is the traffic bad? D’you want a drink?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  She sat at the kitchen table and laughed at him.

  ‘Where’s he coming from?’

  ‘The Dorchester. Excuse the way I look, but the girl walked out, so I’ve been cleaning the kitchen. I can’t bear letting things go. You sure you don’t want a scotch? Go on. Have a scotch.’

  ‘I don’t want one.’ He sat opposite her and she looked into his eyes.

  ‘Have a gin, then. Let yourself go.’

  Suspiciously, he asked, ‘What did this producer say exactly?’

  ‘He’d like to meet you.’

  Bunty wasn’t exactly dressed to seduce him; so, feeling safer, he said, more politely, ‘Has he heard the jingle?’

  ‘Of course he has. Relax.’

  He didn’t believe her ... the look in her eye. ‘Did Joel play the whole tape?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Where is Joel?’

  ‘Trying to trace that magician we saw.’

  Ken sat, quiet, nervous. He kept running his fingers over his lips, and she no longer found it attractive. He looked at his watch.

  ‘It’s all over with fatboy, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  ‘I expect you have lots of affairs.’ He sounded exhausted.

  She arched her back like an angry cat. ‘No I do not have affairs if it’s any of your business. If you’re trying to say you find me attractive, I’d rather you didn’t sound so half-hearted.’

  Confused, he muttered, ‘Can’t you ever talk about anything else?’

  Softly, insiduously, ‘D’you know how old Joel is? 82 at least. When I met him he was wrinkled as an alligator. He takes monkey hormones.’ In her usual voice, she added, ‘I wasn’t a nurse.’ Softly: ‘I just told him that. He was hung up on nurses’ uniforms. He’s disgusting.’

  ‘Leave him then, but don’t keep going on about screwing.’

  She frowned. They stared at each other.

  ‘Ken,’ she said slowly, ‘Ease up a bit. I was only saying I wasn’t really a nurse because I hadn’t got my SRN ...’

  He sat, his eyes fixed on the table. He didn’t know what she’d said, what she hadn’t. He didn’t dare think about it. He did know he’d heard it. He shuddered and held his hands pressed together between his knees. Suddenly he appealed to her. ‘Oh Bunty, I feel terrible. Everything’s terrible.’

  ‘When I’m depressed I find it helps to go to bed.’

  ‘Thank you but I don’t think doing that would help at all,’ he snapped. He was looking at his watch again. He no longer believed the film producer was coming, or that there was a film producer.

  Suddenly he turned very white and she was about to ask what was the matter but he plunged out of the house, jumped into his car and left London ...

  He couldn’t get out of his mind her naked breasts, white and full of tiny blue veins.

  ‘I’ve lost weight,’ she’d murmured. ‘I look good naked now, but I always look good naked.’ She started to lift her sweater.

  ‘No.’

  She laughed. ‘Don’t you like it?’

  Everything was in a turmoil at the sight of that flesh and it wasn’t pleasant. She was coming towards him. His head spun. ‘No, damn you woman!’ The blue veins throbbed, her breasts full of blood swung in front of him.

  ‘
But I’m crazy about you.’

  *

  ‘The dog woman is in London,’ said Frances. ‘What’s more she doesn’t know where he is. She said he was waiting at her house to meet a producer and he suddenly ran out for no reason. She’s rather annoyed. She said she thinks he’s working too hard.’ Frances decided not to mention the loony sexual remarks that he’d made to Bunty.

  Christine sat hunched in front of the mirror. She hadn’t eaten or slept for days. Yet, if anything, she looked even more beautiful.

  ‘Come on.’ Frances pushed across the cup of consommé. ‘You’ve got to keep your strength up. You’ve got Matthew, and he needs you.’

  Listlessly she picked up the cup. The phone rang, and the way she grabbed for it showed that she hadn’t altogether lost hope.

  ‘Jane! Yes I was in hospital. Nothing much. I cut my hand. Ken made me go in. He’s so protective. He’s doing so well it’s out of this world. He’ll be on Russell Harty next.’ She put the phone down and lay on the bed.

  ‘I’d go out with someone, if I were you,’ said Frances. ‘You must still know some men.’

  ‘I could have done a couple of years ago, but since I’ve been with him ...’ She put the soup down.

  ‘I’m not talking about playing around. The attention, the loving will do you good. You need it. Then when he comes back you’ll be in better shape.’

  ‘I wonder if my past has put him off. I was stupid to tell him.’

  ‘The soup’s gone cold. Shall I heat it up?’

  ‘I’ve been wondering if it’s something I’ve done sexually. I get carried away. It could be so many things.’

  In the end she decided it was her bosom. When he’d said, ‘Lovely new breasts’ to describe someone’s daughter, he was obviously saying he liked them, so she scoured London looking for a pectoral water-massager.

  After five days she started taking tranquillisers and had her hair dyed white. Her make-up became surrealistic. She looked like something from outer space.

  At three a.m. she phoned Frances. ‘I think I should get the police.’

  ‘Take your pills.’

  ‘I’ve had them, three times over. Hang on. There’s a car.’ Heart racing, she went to the window. Nothing. ‘I’ve been through all his papers, note books, letters. It all looks so innocent. I’m sure that was him just now.’

  ‘How much have you drunk?’

  ‘I wish the night was over. I feel as though I’m in a submarine. There’s no air in this flat.’

  ‘You shouldn’t drink with those pills.’

  ‘The sodding birds’ll start singing next.’ She’d had at least two bottles of wine.

  ‘I think you should do something to give you an anchor — a job, or take a course in something. Learn a language.’

  ‘I suppose he’s told you he resents keeping me and you’re being tactful about it. Jingling stops him being creative.’ She hiccoughed. ‘Pardon me. Yes I’ll get a job.’ For a moment she was almost cheered up. Then she saw his hair brush. ‘I’ll do anything if he’ll come back. Anything. All I can think of is the good times, how beautiful it was, the joy. I can’t get it out of my mind, and that’s the most hurtful thing of all.’

  She went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, knelt down and put her head in. 3.15 a.m. It was the only bearable place.

  *

  For six days he didn’t do anything. He walked through grass, lay down, took his meals alone, slept, read the newspapers. The only person he spoke to, a seventeen-year-old girl, said, ‘Adverts on telly? Do those things have music? I never noticed.’

  Colour came back into his face; he felt calm. His life in London had broken his health. He hated his job. He loved the silence and smell of the country. He’d get Christine and Matthew, borrow money from his mother again and buy a farm just outside the village.

  *

  He sat outside the pub and drank the local draught beer. In half an hour he’d have dinner — roast duck, new peas, half a bottle of Beaune. He watched a family go into the church. His mind was quiet and empty — safely empty — and he felt he could fill it with any subject and it would be all right. He moved his chair to catch the last of the sun — and then it happened, suddenly between one thought and the next. He jumped up and ran to his car. He had to get back to London. He had to get back into the smells and doorways of the narrow streets.

  The police stopped him before he was half-way. ‘You know you’ve been doing 80?’

  ‘It’s imperative I’m in London. It’s a matter of life and death.’

  They believed him.

  *

  She was sitting in front of her beauty products, looking in the mirror. He didn’t notice the new bed-spread, the little plants on the window-sill or the repainted walls. She was stark with depression.

  ‘Come on,’ he said softly and patted her hair. ‘Let’s go for a drive.’

  They went to Wheelers for an aperitif and had lunch at the White Tower. They got Matthew from nursery and drove to Brighton. They came back to London and went to a late-night film. For two days they whirled around the best places. They thought of going to Paris. Christine had never felt so unhappy.

  He waited while she washed her hair.

  ‘Aeroplane, Daddy.’

  ‘No, Matthew, we’re going by car. You’ll see the Arc de Triomphe and the Champs Élysée.’

  Then he saw her knickers.

  He’d gone into the bedroom. He was so desperately tired he knew that if he lay down he’d be unconscious for hours, so he splashed his face with Cologne, and there, white and sinister, they lay twisted by the bed. Even their position was obscene. He stared, fascinated. Tart’s knickers. He couldn’t touch them or go near them and rushed out of the room.

  ‘Christine! Clear up the bloody place. I can’t stand clothes everywhere. I’ve got to live here too.’

  She charged into the bedroom like a bull, her hair dripping and soapy. ‘Where? Where’s the mess? Show me! One pair of clouts!’

  She punched him, and her knuckles hurt his lip. He backed away; he didn’t like violence. She moved towards him, her eyes scarlet. She was going to hit him again. He made an involuntary movement, and his body seemed to close in on itself, his hands covering as many of the vulnerable places as they could. She didn’t hit him. Almost sneering, she turned her back, offering him an advantageous chance, and then shrugged her shoulders and went to the mirror.

  ‘You wiggle like an air hostess. You’re all wriggling and stupid.’

  ‘Of course.’ Her voice crackled with sarcasm. Even her hair seemed full of it; it snapped and cracked as she combed it. She lit a cigarette and flooded her eyes with blue eye-drops.

  ‘You’re synthetic. Boring.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I can’t stand women who don’t do anything.’

  ‘Incredible.’

  ‘Don’t keep using that fucking word. I am sick to death of your misuse of language.’

  ‘Too, too incredible.’ Then she murmured, ‘Coward.’

  He waved his arms. ‘I happen to prefer tenderness.’

  ‘There you go, turning your failings into virtues again. You make me more stupid than I am. Whatever faults anyone has, you make them worse.’ She mascaraed her lashes, painted her lips. She didn’t feel quite as cool as she saw him pick up his keys and cigarettes. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Back to the studio. Where else?’

  13

  The only good thing about the summer was the tomatoes. He loved the way they ripened; there was something solid about a large crimson tomato. He bought over a hundred plants and spent most of his spare time in the conservatory. He bought books about them and learned their Latin names, and people were surprised to hear this ‘in’ jingle-writer suddenly start talking about tomatoes and their habits.

  Christine’s perfect breasts were massaged and exercised, watered and pampered, and they thrived almost as well as his tomatoes. Everybody wanted her, except Ken. He felt he should want
her. He did want something, but he didn’t know what it was.

  ‘Men follow me up the street. The Sun stopped me yesterday and asked if I’d pose nude. Ken would never allow it.’ Then she remembered it was Frances she was talking to. ‘Actually, he has gone prim. Keeps washing his hands. Can’t bear anything even a touch risqué. Wendy told a joke the other day and he walked out. I never know what he’s doing. If only he’d phone me and let me know. I was awake all night, because he said he’d ring — he promised he’d ring. He rang the next morning, worried about his dog. Did I get it fresh meat? For Godsake! The funny thing is, the dog doesn’t like him any more. It skulks away when Ken comes in.’

  *

  Bunty came to the studio one afternoon while he was putting in new plants. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages.’

  ‘I don’t like being tricked,’ he said.

  ‘You weren’t! The producer showed up that morning and you’d gone. He was furious, but I calmed him down. I played him Vic Damone records.’

  He didn’t believe her.

  ‘Shall we go for a walk? I like walking.’

  He looked at her glistening, lascivious lips and snarled, ‘I bet you do.’

  ‘Is this what you want?’ She approached him suggestively and tried to show him a book. He turned away, thinking it was pornography. It was a book about tomatoes.

  ‘Where’s your gorgeous wife, Ken?’ Joel, wearing a white-and-green-striped summer suit, was in the room. Ken thought Bunty an even worse tart, seeing that she must have known her husband was outside. He looked at her amazed. Surely Joel couldn’t have missed one implication of the scene? Yet he seemed cheerful. ‘Where’s gorgeous?’

  ‘Lying out in the sun as usual, glorifying her body,’ said Ken.

  ‘She’s fantastic,’ said Joel. Other men were always finding his wife fantastic. He thought he should see a psychiatrist.

  ‘Tell her to use my saloons. Free of charge. Tell her to get together with Bunty. I’m going to get hold of that nightclub artist. I want him to do a trick or two badly, and then have some cornflakes and do it OK. I’ll use him in magic slimming as well. I could promote that guy. How’s it sound? I’ve found his agent but I can’t find him.’