A Period of Adjustment (27 page)

‘She's in Milan, or somewhere in Italy,' I said easily. ‘It's a very demanding business being in commercial TV.'

Madame Prideaux nodded. ‘I imagine.'

‘I got a beautiful aquarium from my father. Its brilliant! And some fish from Clotilde and her friend. Will you come and see it? When I have got it all working.'

Florence had opened the garden gate and was standing
aside to let her mother take the lead up the path. Madame Prideaux was searching in her bag, obviously for her keys. I had a shrewd feeling that the delay was deliberate and then she said, ‘
Thomas
will come to tea with you very soon. He will be enchanted to see the aquarium. So you must make it
very
pretty!'

‘Tea?' said Florence.

‘I have agreed that we all go to Jericho for tea. Again. It has been such a long time since Thomas was with his new cousin, hein? When you have decided on the work with Monsieur Jouvet. Or not.'

She had found the keys, closed the flap of her bag. ‘If you prefer not to accompany us, Florence, then Céleste and I can go over. My driving is terrible, but it's not far. And I am curious!'

She started up the path, Florence smiled at me ruefully, shrugged her shoulders. ‘Curious indeed! Thank you. We will arrange a day. Next week? I have your telephone number now, of course. Goodnight, Giles.' She ruffled his hair, took his offered hand. ‘That was a very happy evening. I hope you will remember it.'

‘I will,' said Giles. ‘And I'll have to remember that Dad has to buy ginger snaps.'

‘Some
what?'
A puzzled smile trembled under her wrinkled brow.

‘Ginger snaps. They are Thomas's favourite. Remember?'

She came in from the ugly little bathroom slowly, drying her legs with a cloth as thin, and as mean, as a handkerchief. ‘Marcia', she murmured almost to herself, ‘doesn't exactly “spend” on her little love nest. Can you believe?'

Behind her the sound of water dribbling from the shower-head, a swirl and glugging as it wound down the drain. Her hair was now spiked, wet, like a brush or a hedgehog, her body glistening, shoulders beading with droplets. Little beads of mercury glowing in the soft louvred light.

I said, ‘You look, from where I lie, as if you'd been dipped in mercury.'

She smiled, rubbed her arms. ‘Maybe
you
are Mercury? He's the messenger of the gods, am I right? Maybe I've been sprinkled all about. By you? Possible?'

‘Not really. Not “about”. Elsewhere. Not about. Your haircut is amazing: wet. It was a very savage decision you took.'

For a moment she looked as if she might be concerned. ‘You don't like it? My Louise Brooks cut? It's wrong?'

I shook my head. ‘It suits you. Great. Really.'

‘I got so bored with all that curly-wurly bit. I looked like Deanna Durbin. Know who I mean? So I asked Etienne just
to give me bangs. You'd say fringe. I like it. It's better in the heat.'

She threw the threadbare towel on to a chair, clambered up on to the rubber-sheeted bed beside me. ‘You know something? You look really wanton lying there. Arms behind your head, legs crossed. Naked as Mercury himself.' She stroked my thigh. ‘You know? That was really neat. A really neat afternoon. I like “your way”, I really do. You know a trick or two, in the gentlest way, really neat.' She ran her hand across my chest and laughed when I flinched in apprehension. ‘Don't be so crazy! I wouldn't dare. Your son and heir won't have a moment's curiosity. No need for lies about falling in the bramble bushes. I wouldn't do that. Mind you …' She traced a finger along my lips. ‘Mind you, I'd quite like to, quite like to. Guys like you don't come with the breakfast cornflakes.'

I took her hand, cupped it, opened it, pressed the palm to my mouth, bit it softly, thrust my tongue between her fingers.

‘For Christ's sake, stop,' she said, and pulled away.

‘You didn't call me “Babe” once, not
once
all the afternoon,' I said.

She was lying on her back beside me, pushing her fingers through the new severity of her damp spiky hair. ‘“Babe” is strictly for fantasy land. For male-rape time. A term of cruel endearment. It comes with the kind of sex I sometimes need. No love. No possession. Simple lust. And angry revenge. Can you have “revenge” without being “angry”? I guess not. Anyway, your way is sweet and good, and I go for it. With you. “Momma and Poppa” love. No aggression. And three orgasms in two and a half hours! Heavens to Betsy!'

I kissed her forehead. ‘Who's got a stop-watch?'

She stroked my face, fingers as light as a prawn's whiskers. ‘You know, sometimes I was just overwhelmed by
having a sort-of “half-flash” about every two years. No one ever wanted to
really
know, “How was it for you?” Can you believe? Bobbie wanted his child. Fine, I went along with it but there was no pleasure, no joy, absolutely no rapture. Only, eventually, Frederick when he arrived. I enjoyed birthing him. Not his conception. Bobbie just heaved off and said, “That should do it, Louise.” Believe it? Went off to his dressing-room. I cleaned up. And held on to Frederick. When I did, finally, experience the delight – not, I hasten to add, with either husband, just a sexy guy I met at some airport hotel, we'd got grounded at O'Hare by fog and so on – it was nothing. Except it was
everything.
And I realized, to my misery, how badly I had underplayed my faux-orgasms in the past. Wild! And somehow, that time at Dottie's, I kind of knew you'd make it with me. And, my shining knight, you did. We did. Thank you.'

I put my arms round her and for moments we lay together, her head on my chest, damp, sweet-smelling, soft and tender. ‘I love your new haircut. I can see your ears.'

‘And now you'll say they are just like shells. Pink, like shells.'

‘They are like shells. Pink, like shells.'

She turned her face towards me, kissed me lightly. ‘Idiot. You are an idiot.' She sat up slowly, pulled at her hair thoughtfully. ‘It really did look so good dry. When I saw your sister-in-law – Florence? – at supper last week, she looked so damn cool. Crisp. It's sensible for July, August … the heat. God!' She laughed softly. ‘She really
hates
me.'

‘Doesn't hate you. Far too strong a word. Jealous? I'll give you that. She's a bit possessive, that's all.'

‘I thought she was wrapped up in her memories … your brother. No?'

‘Yes, and no. I think she considers me to be part of her “family fiction”.'

‘Do you love her? I think that you do?'

‘I do. Yes. In a very middle-aged way. It's love. I've gone over the brink, you could call it besotted. Protective, you know? But no lust. I lust for you, love her. Understand me?'

‘Not very well. But I can imagine. Only don't be too middle-aged about it. We have just started getting you out of that phase. I reckon
she
loves
you,
but doesn't quite realize it yet. I know the signs – very spinsterish.'

‘You are being a bit tough on Florence. She's just jealous. Good old female jealousy. That's all. I don't think she loves me. Yet. I'll wait. There is no big rush, and she knows that. She's had a bloody time. A really bloody time.'

‘Well, she's in love with you. I know
that.
It's a woman thing. We can tell.' She slid off the bed, reached for a shirt thrown on a chair. ‘Ah well, I just hope she goes along with your new image. Tight jeans, the Hechter shirts. Not to mention your yellow auto. It's hardly middle-aged. Does Giles notice the change in his pa? Frederick will freak out when he sees
me
tonight, wearing this, what you call, “savage decision”. He'll probably notice that. Otherwise I'd have to be dead for a week to get a proper reaction.' She pulled the shirt over her head, found her thin skirt.

I put out an arm. ‘Don't put it on. Wait a little. Must you?'

She came over and sat on the bed, the skirt in her hands, across her thighs. ‘I haven't got a stop-watch. But we have to go. We can't stay here much longer.' She bent down, kissed my shoulder, flicked her tongue across my chest, a little adder's tongue, flicking and darting, but when I reached for her she pulled quickly away. ‘C'mon now! Be good. Lust and revenge have faded. You have worked your magic. Leave it there. Okay? We have to go pick up the children from Dottie, do the “Mom and Pop” bit. Back to normal. Back to Life.' She got up, wrapped the cotton skirt round her hips. ‘C'mon. Go take a shower, I'll get my hair right and we'll lock up for Marcia. Okay? Up.'

I got up and went into the bathroom, ran the shower.

‘My chauffeur, you remember? Tarzan? Well, Henri is fine now. He'll be driving in a day or two, so we can't make a habit any more of sneaking away like this, and anyway, this hideous place, Les Palmiers, won't be empty for ever. Someone is bound to notice we park our cars and never open the shutters. Right?' There was a note of sharp anxiety in her voice. ‘I hate to hear that water running. Can you hear me? Washing off all that salt from your body. You tasted
so
salt. Don't be too long. We have to -'

I turned the tap to ‘Full', drowning her voice. Didn't hear any more. The water roared, I found a piece of soap as thick as a penny, dried myself on a fragment of towel. She was standing at a little mirror brushing her hair. ‘Did you really wear knitted ties and brogue shoes?' A cool voice now.

‘I did. Yes, I did. English gear. I lived in London. Not the Var.'

‘And grey flannels and smoked a pipe?'

‘Never that. I did wear flannels. I won't ever again.'

‘But were you quite amazingly successful? I mean,
are
you? Should I know who you are? You a part of the “glittering set”, or whatever they call it? I don't know these things. You're never in the
Times,
the
New Yorker, Vanity Fair,
papers I read. You know?'

‘No. Never been in them. As far as I know. Not part of the “glitterati” or whatever you called it, just comfortable middle of the road. A book a year, faithful list of readers. Steady sales. Not at all dramatic' I pulled on my shirt, reached for my pants.

She sighed. ‘Pulling on his pants. So sad to see it all go, like that. Tuck in your shirt. Round your ass. In those pants it leaves a ridge. And that looks just awful.' She began to push a foot into a white flip-flop. ‘Do you have a publisher in America? Someone very grand? I only read extracts and
things, so it doesn't really bother me. But as we know each other so well in bed it seems strange not to know, well, the rest of you. Never mind.' She shook her cropped head. ‘I'd better go wipe the bathroom floor. I'll take this rag that Marcia imagines to be a towel.'

‘You don't drive in those things? Flip-flops. Do you?'

She turned slowly at the door, the rag in her hand, both feet now shod, frowned. ‘I drive barefoot.
Always
here. Okay?'

She went into the bathroom and I went with her. ‘I'll give you a hand. We didn't use any linen, apart from these things. No picnic, this time. No empty glasses.' We began mopping the wet floor.

‘Are you writing something now? Some tremendous saga? Maybe about your long-lost brother James? That it? About brother James?' Her voice was high, suddenly quite cool, uninterested. Turned off. It was as if a window had been silently opened in a warm room and a chill air wreathed about. Lulu was deliberately dismissing me. I sloshed the rag round the inside of the shower-stall.

‘About San Francisco, actually.'

She hung her wet towel on the edge of the little bath. ‘You know San Francisco? I mean, really
know
it?' She pushed gently past me into the bedroom, I hung my towel next to hers, wrung out. ‘Sure I know it. Months there. It was fun, in a hellish sort of way. Research always is.'

‘What kind of book are you writing about San Francisco?' She was smoothing the crumpled pillows on the rubber sheet. ‘
Travels with My Uncle.
Something?' She took up a pink candlewick bedspread. Unfolded it roughly.

‘It's all finished. Delivered, corrected. It's called
Five-Twelve.'

She looked at me in mild surprise. ‘Just that? Nothing more?'

‘Just that.'

‘What is it? On maths? Geographical? A science thing?'

‘It is the exact moment in the morning when the ‘quake hit the city, in nineteen-six. I spent weeks talking to people. Did you know that Enrico Caruso was there? At the Palace Hotel. He actually sang in the ruins.'

She snorted. Then a thin laugh. ‘What a gas! You mean the opera singer?
That
Caruso? Anyway, that was all in a different movie. That was Jeanette MacDonald.' She threw the pink bedspread across the rubber sheet.

‘So you spent months in San Francisco wearing your grey flannels and knitted ties and talking about poor old Caruso. What a wild thing to do! Can you just smooth out your side? Tuck in the end … fine.' She looked round the ugly little room. ‘What haven't we done? Left untidy? Nothing, all is fine. Just fine and I have the key right here.' She had opened her straw purse, fumbled in it. I went across to the windows, closed the slightly opened shutters, turned off the air-conditioner. It whined softly to a stop. There was no sound. A flat, dense, muffled air. She rattled the little key on its chain, to break the silence. ‘Ting! Ting! Ting! I said Henri's foot is just fine now. He'll be able to drive in a couple of days.' Suddenly she looked shy, lost, rattled the keys again. ‘He's really
much
better now. It was not so bad after all. No poison.'

‘You told me that. So he'll be driving you again? You won't be able just to sneak off on your own any more. Right?'

‘I said all that. I told you.'