Armistice (16 page)

There was a moment when the waitress and she held each other's gaze. Underneath their smiles, shades of sadness.

“I'll keep an eye for you,” said the waitress. “To see how it is done.”

Philomena watched her go to Anthony Dore and relay her answer. He looked as if he was trying not to smile too broadly. She tried to imagine him cowering under a table in a dugout as an enemy shell exploded and reminded herself to remember to speak in Felicity's accent.

So, there she was, on her own in a strange London club pretending to be someone called Felicity, wearing hired clothes, about to have a drink with the man who might have killed—who'd been accused of killing—her fiancé.

Dore rose from his seat. He'd previously picked up a few women in this sort of place. Some were showgirls who were really prostitutes; some were prostitutes who said they were really actresses. All the ones he'd had sex with, bar one, had been prostitutes of one sort or another in that they'd afterward accepted gifts of money. Not streetwalkers, any of them, nor difficult to approach, but capable of declining. They had to be won.

Whatever intimacies ensued were superficial in two respects. Firstly, no commitment was anticipated. Secondly, Anthony concealed nearly all of his true self from the women. From men, too. Had done for years. He'd laid down layer upon layer of protection—not regular and even like undisturbed
sedimentary rock; twisted and turned in upon itself like upheaved igneous strata.

Recently he hadn't felt able to let his defenses naturally evolve. They'd needed an accelerant. Yes, to Major James he'd denied absolutely everything regarding his involvement in the death of Daniel Case, and been believed. But he felt that this had been achieved on a wing and a prayer, inspiration, in fact. To say that there had never been a card game had been an audacious stroke that had beaten the initial accusation. Now came the long haul. Fearing that one day he could be accused again of shooting Daniel Case, Anthony Dore had sought help. In order to learn how to rehearse his innocence, he was secretly visiting a psychiatrist. That is where he had been this teatime, engaged in lying on his couch and lying to him. His reason to be there, and continue to visit, he maintained, was that he irrationally feared other people would accuse him of some terrible action. What people, what action? probed the psychiatrist. No idea; someone as yet only shadowy, wielding lies about some heinous crime. The psychiatrist had inquired from whence this fear might stem and Anthony had again had no idea. The psychiatrist had nodded sagely and droned on about childhood this and repressed that and the “unconscious.” Sometimes Anthony listened, sometimes not. When in sessions it was his turn to speak he'd discovered how easy it was to paint himself as an innocent victim in his own history. He polished memories of himself until they reflected the story he felt most favorably revealed him. He presented
evidence that showed he was a sensitive soul, too sensitive, perhaps.

Anthony found solace in the fact that he had proved himself to be an accomplished dissembler because the psychiatrist—an expert, surely—had failed to see inside him to the truth.

Walking over to this green-eyed girl tonight, he was reminded of another woman, the one who wasn't a prostitute, who'd told him not long into their conversation that she wanted to stop talking because she had a thing about sex with strangers. After they had done it Anthony would have liked to see her again but she had argued that he couldn't be a stranger the second time. He'd heard a foreign accent in her English, had a vision of her visiting every seedy nightclub in London, and perhaps Paris, and all the other capitals, having sex with strangers again and again, not for money. Could she have pursued her existence if the war hadn't happened, if pre-war morality had continued? Or would she have been a maverick in any era? Was this emancipation? He had really very much wanted to see her again. Not as a commitment. She was unsuitable in every social respect. A secret mistress, perhaps. He had needs, of course he did, for companionship, and sex, and other cures for loneliness. So here he was, hopeful once more. He sat down opposite this one and said: “My name's Anthony.”

“I'm Felicity,” the girl said.

“How do you do?” said Anthony.

He tried to keep his face turned toward her. He smiled.
She was very attractive, but he couldn't quite read her: actress, prostitute, good-time girl, free spirit? Strong body. Arresting face. Sparkling eyes. Good luck to me, he thought.

Immediately Philomena feared that she was about to be found out—she didn't even know the correct reply. She didn't really know enough about how a woman like Felicity spoke or lived or ate when mixing privately. She had no proper idea about any of it. The girl playing the girl in the play had had lines to recite and weeks of rehearsal. Felicity could hardly say “What fun!” in response to everything Anthony said.

“I'm okay,” she risked.

“‘Okay.' How American,” said Anthony.

“Everybody's saying it, aren't they?”

“Not everybody's saying it, no,” said Anthony. “But there are lots of things that not everybody is saying.”

What did she think about Anthony so far? He was almost handsome, and very posh, but there was something brittle underneath; he wasn't quite balanced. What stopped him being handsome was that he wasn't quite tall enough, nor broad enough, and his mouth wasn't right—too wide, and his eyes were pinched in the corners. It wasn't a list of calamities but, assembled in this one person, with what he gave off, it added up to a sense of not quite rightness.

The waitress arrived with the drinks; Felicity's rum and black and his Scotch. After she'd gone there was an awkward moment while Philomena and Anthony searched around for conversational re-openers.

“It's my first time here,” she offered, as Felicity.

“What do you think of the place?” asked Anthony, sounding a little like he was claiming responsibility for it.

“It seems okay,” agreed Philomena, and she summoned a smile to let Anthony know that she was teasing him in saying okay again so soon.

“How did you hear about it?”

“Oh. You know,” she said, buying time—wondering whether to make up a name of someone, immediately deciding not to because it could lead to a whole series of other questions. “Gossip.” To engage both hands, she rolled her glass between her palms.

“They don't make it easy to find, do they?” said Anthony.

“Well you can't be too careful, can you?” warned Philomena, taking a big sip of her drink, and thinking, this is “okay”; Felicity's a tease. She's enigmatic.

“You can't, can you?” said Anthony, widening his already wide mouth in a smile, and she got the feeling that he was trying to play but it wasn't quite coming off.

“Not everyone deserves to be admitted,” she said, artfully raising an eyebrow. “And St. Peter's on the gate.” Immediately she kicked herself hard—she risked being found out because she didn't know the name of the club they were in.

“D'you think Peter is the doorman's real name or one he's
adopted for The Gates of Heaven?” said Anthony Dore, pleased with his wit.

The Gates of Heaven, thought Philomena, thank you. And her broad smile of relief was misinterpreted by Anthony as an invitation to move in.

“What do you do?” asked Anthony. He'd leaned forward slightly, and he had a new expression on his face. He'd put a bit more emphasis on the word “do” than was strictly necessary, trying too hard to be suggestive. Philomena imagined he wanted Felicity's reply to be something along the lines of “anything you like.” He was looking at her hands for the first time as they encircled her glass. Ladies' hands don't have scrabby nails and rough pads to the fingers, evolved to resist the pricks of sewing needles and pins.

“I'm an artist,” she blurted out—it sounded so to her -inventing Felicity's occupation on the spot.

“I bet you are,” said Anthony.

She placed her glass on the table next to her, folded her hands in her lap, said: “I know, it's ruined them,” before catching on that he was being lascivious. For a moment he looked perplexed.

“A real artist?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Anthony was disappointed. He'd thought she was saying she was another sort of artist. In bed. He rallied, asked: “What sort of art?”

What sort of art? He might be an expert. The rich all had the odd Old Master hanging on the wall, didn't they?

“I don't categorize it, really.”

“Modern stuff,” said Anthony.

Philomena felt truly, deeply up to her neck in it. The door was to her left; she could make it in four swift strides.

From somewhere she dredged: “Well, yes. I am making it now, so it is modern. What's your line?”

“I suppose you could say I'm in business.”

“Which is …”

“Business. Stuff. Money.” He waved a hand dismissively.

“Stuff?” asked Philomena.

“Too boring. How would you describe your art?”

“How would you describe your business, stuff, money?”

Anthony paused. Very well, she needs certain reassurances. “More than sufficient,” he replied. “That's how I'd describe my business, stuff, money.” He widened his eyes and inclined his head, warning her that that was all she needed to know. “So, your art; describe it.”

“I express myself,” Philomena said, as Felicity, petrified behind her smile.

“Oh yes?” he teased.

“I let my secrets out.” There, she'd introduced the idea of secrets.

“So you don't have any secrets,” asked Anthony, grinning.

“Oh, I do,” said Philomena, flaring her eyes.

“But you let them out, you said,” said Anthony, hooked.

“There's an endless supply. My secrets are replenished on a daily basis.”

“Better out than in,” said Anthony, shifting in his seat, hoping
she might say something like “better in than out” and they could proceed from there.

“Is that your motto?” she asked, deliberately leaning forward slightly, wetting her lips with a quick flick of her tongue.

Anthony also leaned forward, mirroring her. “Where did you go before you found this place?”

“Somewhere else that I liked,” she fired back.

“This sort of place?” he asked, lewdly.

“What sort of place is this?” she asked, mock innocent.

“Uninhibited. Illegal,” said Anthony.

“It's terrible that it's illegal to be uninhibited,” she replied, reveling in her lasciviousness.

“Isn't it just,” said Anthony, smiling broadly. “Where are you from?” he asked, looking Felicity square in the face, and Philomena immediately panicked that he'd heard a trace of her true accent underneath her rapidly evolving alter-ego's.

“That's a secret,” she said, trying to keep the flirtation alive.

“Where do you live?” asked Anthony.

And whereas Philomena thought that this question also indicated that Anthony Dore had smelled a rat, in fact he was inquiring if she had a place to which they might retire in order to have sex.

“That's a secret, too,” she said, suddenly feeling absolutely disgusted with herself, and him—though she couldn't blame him for thinking Felicity might be willing—and disgusted with the place they were in, and for a moment she considered telling him the truth about herself and putting him right
on the spot simply by asking him directly if Jonathan Priest's allegation was true.

“Are you really an artist?” he asked.

“Yes. No.”

Instead of looking bemused by her contradiction, he seemed to take it as evidence that the game of “will we do it?” continued.

“Which?” he begged, and Philomena loathed him. And she knew that when Dan and he had met they would have loathed each other.

“I have to go,” she said, suddenly standing up.

“What?”

She didn't answer him—she gathered herself and began to walk away without any sort of farewell and without looking at him.

Anthony realized that he was also on his feet, and that the waitress was watching him, frowning. Felicity was already at the top of the stairs, beginning to descend. Anthony resisted the urge to run after her. What the hell happened there? he asked himself. Other people were looking at him. They must be thinking he'd said or done something, but he hadn't. That Felicity should come back and finish her drink and then they'd know that he hadn't done anything. What on earth was going on? They'd been getting along famously, enjoying a terrific time together, and now people were staring at him! He prepared to hurry down the stairs after her but the waitress cried: “Your bill, sir!” and he had to stop to pay the bitch.

Philomena was on the first-floor landing, on the way down to the entrance, trying not to attract attention to herself but
moving more quickly than is normal. St. Peter glanced up and saw her and looked immediately concerned. Realizing that she wouldn't be able to avoid a short exchange with him, Philomena glanced back to make sure Anthony wasn't following.

“Did you find Daniel?” asked St. Peter.

She glanced back again for fear that if Anthony Dore was following her he could have heard that.

“No,” she said, trying to sound not too disappointed.

“Is everything all right?” asked St. Peter.

“Oh yes,” she said, brightly. “I'll be back another time, if that's all right.”

“You had fun?”

“Oh yes. What fun!” Did that sound too shrill?

“You haven't collected your coat.”

There she was, trying to act as if nothing were wrong, about to leave without her coat. She tried to compose herself as she walked back to the cloakroom where the attendant had retrieved her garment and now helped her on with it. St. Peter smiled and opened the front door for her and she walked out, resisting the urge to run. When she heard the door close behind her she quickened her step to the road. A taxi was passing so she threw up an arm and it stopped. When it rolled away from The Gates of Heaven she sank back in her seat and deliberately exhaled because she hadn't been breathing freely for some time.