‘You really think I lead a charmed life.’
‘Maybe I want to,’ Richard said fondly. ‘Anyway, don’t you?’
‘Some of the time,’ Felix said. ‘I’ve been feeling very old lately.’
* * *
It was a long time before Sally slept. She had refused to let Helen sit with her, saying she wanted to be alone, but really it was a comfort to know Helen was only downstairs.
In the clinic she had lain with her hands on her stomach for those final minutes, saying goodbye to the baby, calling it little one, saying she was sorry, asking it to forgive her. Now she wrapped her arms round herself for consolation, feeling hollow and empty, needing Felix to hold her, loving him and hating him, longing to call for Helen but too angry to open her mouth, and confused, most of all confused, that she could feel already, acutely, both a sense of loss and a sense of relief.
Autumn
She let them drive her to Sussex when the time came. She had meant to be independent, doing it all by herself on the train, but in the end it was too much effort, she simply had too much stuff. It was a shock to see the place again: she hadn’t been down since her interview and now it was going to be her home. So many people, so much to do, to see, to learn, to explore. It was exciting and it scared her. She was afraid she could be very lonely here among all these people; she felt remote inside her head and shut off from everyone, as if behind glass. She couldn’t wait for Helen and Richard to go and yet she was scared to be alone.
‘Don’t worry if I don’t write,’ she told them. ‘I’m going to be very busy. I’ll just ring you now and then.’
* * *
Inge loved Sunday mornings. In the days of her marriage it had been a particularly good time to make love, with no excuses from Richard about being late for work or having to go shopping, the boys trained to play quietly in a cot full of toys (the bedroom door locked just in case) or, later, visiting their friends and preventing other people’s parents from making love. The atmosphere lingered although Richard had gone, and she always woke feeling restless and hopeful. Even without Richard, there were still the delights of the Sunday papers and bacon frying and loud music. Even without a job to relax from or a religion to practise, the morning presented quite a different texture from the rest of the week. It was not until later in the day that alcohol and depression took over.
The boys were more organised than she was, viewing the morning as a time to catch up on chores before they embarked on pleasure. Around noon Karl would appear in the doorway with a black dustbin liner stuffed with dirty clothes. She was pleased her children chose to take on these burdens that she had cast aside.
‘Anything for the launderette, Mum? I’ve got the sheets and towels.’
Inge considered. It was a good opportunity but too much effort to work out what really needed to be washed. ‘I don’t know. There may be something under my bed.’
‘Right. I’ll look.’ He stomped off, sounding resigned but not resentful as she would have been if her mother behaved like that. But she felt Richard’s desertion excused everything. Mere survival took all her energy: it was a daily achievement, she thought, not to kill herself out of sheer despair. She went on reading, turning up Gotterdammerung on her stereo because she could hear Peter’s hard rock intruding from upstairs, when a familiar face caught her attention in the paper. She had seen it many times, long ago at her own dinner table, enjoying her food and wine, expressing strong opinions, and favouring her with a particularly suggestive smile. She had always thought they would like to make love to each other, but in those days she was faithful to Richard so it was not possible. She had also thought there was interesting chemistry between Richard and Felix, although neither of them, she knew, would ever do anything about it. And now, the newspaper informed her, Felix Cramer would be signing copies of his new paperback The Shamrock Murder at the Penguin Bookshop in Covent Garden on Wednesday between twelve and two.
‘Five pairs of knickers and a cheese sandwich,’ said Karl, returning. ‘And Pete says could you turn down the Wagner a bit.’
Inge went on reading. It was years since she had seen anything about Felix in the papers: perhaps he had been ill or away or not writing much. She had read only one of his books because she didn’t like thrillers and it had seemed awkward to have a dinner guest constantly expecting praise. But the face was still attractive and looked as if it had seen many interesting things. She went on staring at the smiling photograph and felt herself responding to it. The house shook as Karl slammed the front door; Peter shouted from upstairs, ‘Mum, can you give it a rest?’
Inge smiled at the photograph and turned up the Wagner. It made a triumphant sound.
* * *
On Wednesday she dressed carefully, went down to the bookshop and stationed herself at the window. He looked older, she thought. There was definitely more grey in his hair than she remembered, but at least he wasn’t losing it. She studied him closely. There was a look of strain that she didn’t recognise, exhaustion or anxiety: that was new. As if he had passed through some recent trying experience which had left its mark. Odd, because she had never believed in Felix as a person who was affected by his experiences, except to convert them into copy; she had always seen him, enviously, as someone who could walk through fire unscathed. Perhaps he was having problems with his wife; perhaps he needed a good fuck.
But when he smiled, all the old charm was there and the years fell away. It was an amazing transformation: he looked young, gentle, vulnerable. Everything she knew he was not. Memories flooded back, of all the happy evenings she had spent with him and Richard, talking and laughing and getting drunk. Just looking at Felix made her feel closer to Richard.
She watched the women crowding round him. How happy they looked when he smiled at them, and how lonely he looked when they went away. It was an unfamiliar look: she had never thought of Felix as capable of loneliness. But she was pleased to see that he was; it meant they had more in common than she had realised. The bookseller and the PR person from the publisher fussed round him (at least she assumed that was who they were) but he still looked put out, a mixture of embarrassment and bad temper, like a film star deserted by his fans. She wanted to laugh but she also felt tenderness for him, as if he were one of her children at a party where he was not having a good time.
* * *
Felix always forgot how dreadful signing sessions could be. He wondered if mothers of large families felt the same about childbirth, memories of the pain blurring with time, or natural optimism making them hope it might all get easier with practice. At all events he felt a perfect fool sitting beside a pile of books that not enough people were buying. When he did get to sign one it meant engaging in idiotic conversation with his public, who all seemed convinced that they too could write books if only they had the time, because they had led very interesting lives and their friends often said they should put it all down on paper. When Felix asked what was stopping them, they didn’t seem to know, but some of them were keen to find out if he wrote in longhand or typed or used a word processor, as if therein lay some magical secret. Many more enquired if he had a say in the casting of the television series. Felix would have liked a pound for every time he had been asked this question, as he thought it might well exceed his bi-annual royalty cheque; he also felt close to hysteria as he answered, as if the day were not far off when he might burst out laughing, fall on the floor, chew at the carpet and foam at the mouth. Yet he was profoundly grateful to all these people: without them he would have no career, no money, no freedom, no identity. Why then did their questions make him feel a fraud, as if someone else had written his books? Why did he fear that his physical presence was subtly disappointing to most of them, as if he were an actor who looked smaller in person than on the screen?
‘We haven’t done at all badly, you know,’ said the PR girl, who had glasses and a cleavage. ‘It’s just slowed down a bit this last half hour.’
‘You could say that,’ Felix agreed
.
The bookshop manager poured him another glass of wine. ‘But we’ve sold quite a few,’ he said encouragingly, reminding Felix of a doctor explaining that his illness, though chronic, was not fatal.
‘Quite a few isn’t enough though, is it?’ said Felix, downing the wine in one go. ‘What we needed was a stampede. Wild-eyed women fighting each other to reach my side, fivers clutched in their hot sticky hands.’
The manager refilled his glass.
‘These things are always difficult to predict,’ said the PR girl. ‘It could be anything, even the weather. Nothing to do with you or your book.’
Felix was just wondering if it would be worth trying to get the PR girl into bed when he recognised someone standing in a corner of the shop and watching him. As he stared at her she began to advance towards him.
‘I’m sorry, I may have to skip lunch,’ he said, touching the PR girl’s hand. ‘I’ve just seen an old friend.’
She was still beautiful in her own bizarre fashion. Dark brown hair worn long and gleaming with burnished red like henna. Eccentric clothes that might have come from a junk shop but were obviously chosen with care, a bizarre mixture of lace and satin and velvet in shades of brown and rust. Her skin was pale and slightly freckled: without make-up it looked almost damp with pallor, making the red lipstick stand out and the kohl round the eyes. The new soft lines marking eight years of endurance and disappointment were obvious and touching: he remembered her as young.
‘Inge,’ he said, wondering if they should kiss on the cheek. ‘What a lovely surprise.’
She put both hands into his and squeezed hard. ‘Hullo, Felix, how are you, how’s it going?’ She smelt of musk oil.
‘Not very well,’ he said and they both laughed. ‘Would you like to have lunch?’
He took her to a restaurant round the corner because it was already late to go further. They had large gin and tonics to start them off while they ordered their food and they kept laughing a lot at very small jokes, which Felix thought probably meant they were both nervous. He noticed that she still wore her wedding ring.
‘I felt such an idiot,’ he said, ‘sitting around waiting to sign books nobody wanted to buy.’
‘But there were quite a lot of people, I think. I was watching.’
‘Not enough. Perhaps the gods are trying to tell me something. Perhaps it’s a lesson in humility.’
They both laughed at this unlikely idea.
‘Is it good, your new book?’ she asked, as if he could be quite dispassionate about it.
‘As far as I remember. The hardback came out last year so it’s not new to me. I suppose it’s all right, if you like Tony Blythe. Personally I’m sick to death of him, silly bugger. I can’t wait to kill him off.’
‘But I thought he was meant to be sexy, like you.’ Her light blue eyes held his with a challenging look: there was nothing coy or evasive about her. Felix felt he was being undressed at the table. He wondered if he looked at women in the same way; he hoped he was more subtle.
‘Well, that’s possible, I suppose.’
When their food and wine arrived she drank quickly and ate as if she were starving. He thought of all the meals they had shared in the past with Richard and Elizabeth, how cosy it had been compared to Helen’s cold hostility. He had never felt judged or condemned by Inge; he had always regretted that she was so tantalisingly out of reach. And now they were alone together for the first time. He sensed a tremendous need emanating from her, not just for food and wine, but for sex, conversation, human contact, as if she been let out of solitary confinement.
‘You know, Inge,’ he said, warmed by his memories, ‘it really is extraordinarily nice to see you. I’d forgotten how beautiful you are. Richard must have been crazy to leave you.’
‘I think so,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Sometimes I’m so lonely I nearly kill myself.’
‘That would be a terrible waste.’
She shrugged. ‘Well, I survive so far on hope. Hope and hatred. I believe in a god of vengeance. He’ll punish the cow for stealing my husband, but he’s very slow.’
‘I suppose in eternity these things don’t feel very urgent.’
‘D’you believe in God, Felix?’
Felix thought about it. ‘Not exactly. Sometimes. I think I’d rather steer clear of vengeance, but a god of pleasure, I could believe in that.’
‘There’s not enough pleasure in the world,’ said Inge with enormous energy. ‘This is a puritan country. People are sick, they’re afraid of pleasure.’
‘I’m not,’ said Felix, feeling religious and dedicated like a knight in pursuit of the Holy Grail. ‘In fact I’ve spent my whole life trying to have as much as possible.’
‘Yes, that’s true. I think you are very healthy, Felix.’
‘I think so too,’ said Felix.
They stared at each other thoughtfully. Inge was such good value, he felt: there was an earthy intensity about her. He poured two more glasses of wine, and presently suggested he should drive her home. He had been rather depressed since Sally left and felt in need of a treat.
* * *
‘You have a beautiful cock, Felix,’ said Inge reflectively.
Felix, who was still slightly out of breath, felt himself in the presence of a connoisseur. ‘D’you mean in action or at rest?’ he enquired in the spirit of a genuine seeker after truth.
‘Oh, it moves very nicely,’ said Inge, ‘but it’s also good to look at as an object. I mean it’s pleasing aesthetically. You know?’
‘Yes, I think I know what you mean,’ said Felix, gratified.
‘The length is average but the width is excellent,’ Inge went on. ‘Width is more important than length, of course. You fill me up so beautifully, Felix. You give me a great deal of pleasure.’
Felix, who had counted six clitoral orgasms (evenly divided between mouth and fingers) and four vaginal orgasms (unevenly divided between man on top, woman on top, and both on all fours) before he gave up and surrendered himself to his own climax, was bound to agree. He did not subscribe to popular mythology that defined only one type of orgasm. Too many women had shown him otherwise.
‘It’s good that you’re circumcised too,’ Inge continued. ‘It’s more attractive and hygienic, I think. D’you remember how Richard didn’t want me to have the boys done, he said it wasn’t necessary, but I told him I knew best about such things.’
Yes, Felix thought, I’m sure you did. ‘Why don’t you like me to kiss you, Inge?’ he asked provocatively, is it because you’re still in love with Richard?’
Inge looked at him as if surprised. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you? Isn’t that why we’re both here?’
Felix forced himself to laugh but he felt the chill of the consulting-room settle on his soul. ‘Put away that paperback psychology,’ he said. ‘We’re here to have fun, not delve into the subconscious. Don’t spoil a good thing.’
Inge sighed. ‘Oh, that’s what I always do.’ She lay back, her brown hair merging with the brown sheets, her breasts sagging, her pubic hair still wet with their mingled juices. The scent of her was everywhere: musk oil and new sweat and something else he feared might be the result of not actually taking a bath every day. He did not want to name this hidden ingredient to himself (she was not visibly dirty at all) but there was something the exact reverse of Sally. With Sally he had felt she had always just had a shower and washed her hair, while with Inge he hoped that both events, with luck, had occurred yesterday or the day before. Sally had smelt of soap and shampoo and vanilla, whereas Inge smelt of Inge, in varying degrees of strength. Was it perverse of him to find this sexually exciting or was he simply in revolt against the twentieth-century Western obsession with cleanliness? Perhaps Napoleon had been right, telling Josephine not to wash for three days because he was coming home.
Sally’s hair was always shiny and swinging, gleaming with health and care as if advertising conditioner; Inge’s, though equally long and thick, was sl
ightly sticky and smelt like a warm animal which had just crawled out of a nest of straw. Her cunt tasted like smoked salmon. Dark hair flourished on her legs and in her armpits; her teeth were uneven and sharp. Her body, too, was out of proportion. Whereas Sally was straight up and down, a sturdy five foot six and size twelve, Inge, though an inch or two shorter, appeared to be a blend of size ten and fourteen. Her breasts were large and tended to droop, and her hips were wide. But in between there was a ridiculously tiny waist and ribs that actually showed through her skin. Sally’s stomach curved, whereas Inge’s, though stretch-marked, was almost flat. He had the feeling that Inge, if seized abruptly at each end, might snap in the middle.
How pleasant life would be, he reflected, if he could have all three of them: Sally and Elizabeth and Inge. The virgin and the mother and the whore. The women’s liberation people, with whom he agreed intellectually, would probably dismember him for even having such a thought, but it was true. All aspects of himself would be catered for and he would have nothing further to desire. Nor would he fear boredom: in these three he would find the infinite variety of Shakespeare’s Cleopatra. But it seemed that only two out of three were allowed at any one time. ‘I’m hungry,’ said Inge. ‘And I want a drink.’ Abruptly she got out of bed and pulled on her clothes, a T-shirt and a long full skirt in various shades of mulberry, the same clothes she had been wearing before they went to bed, but without her underwear, which still lay discarded on the floor. Felix got dressed, since she was not offering him a bath or a bathrobe; it was obviously not going to be one of those cosy afternoons.
The bedroom had been a novelty but it was eerie to be back in the kitchen where he had spent so many evenings with Richard during the marriage. Inge poured whisky for them both and started doing something complicated with sausages. He had never been sure whether or not he liked Inge’s cooking, but it was certainly distinctive.
A Sense of Guilt Page 19