‘Well…’
‘Well, which colour? We’ll never make it back to the villa this afternoon if you keep dithering.’
‘Put like that…well, how does lilac sound?’
‘Disgusting. But if it’s what you want…’
‘It is.’
‘Great. And what about the upholstery?’ he asked.
Jane shrugged. ‘Is there a choice? When I got my Metro it just sort of arrived and the upholstery was the colour it was.’
‘Cream leather? White plastic? Diamante-studded leopardskin?’
‘Oh. With lilac?’
‘It’ll have to be cream leather, won’t it? Serves you right for choosing such a revolting colour.’
‘I suppose it will,’ she laughed.
And so the car was purchased, and then shoes, and handbags to match the shoes and then clothes to match the handbags. They ended up at the Ponte Vecchio, elegantly straddling the river Arno, and clustered on either side with jewellers’ shops—all of which Guy seemed determined to clear of stock. She only had to stop to study some item and he nodded at the assistant and the item was hers. Every time they strolled out of a shop and into the fresh, blustery air Jane would look longingly towards the Uffizi, situated just beyond the bridge. There were paintings in there which made every single item they bought today seem like so much dross. But Guy didn’t even seem to see the gallery, let alone suggest a visit.
In the end she said longingly, ‘Oughtn’t we go into the Uffizi, now that we’re so near?’
Guy slung his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close to him. ‘You’re very well brought up, aren’t you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, I bet when you came before, you armed yourself with guide books and ticked off items as you saw them, didn’t you?’
‘No. I really love paintings, Guy.’
‘I’ll bet.’
‘Does that mean you don’t want to go in?’
‘I want to get you home and see if I can create a little more employment.’
‘Employment?’
‘Mmmm. You know…a job-creation scheme for an unemployed nanny.’
‘Oh.’ Jane burned with embarrassment. ‘You mean you want to make a baby?’
‘Got it in one.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Deadly.’
‘I…um…Guy, I went on the Pill while you were in Malaysia.’
He was silent for a moment, and then relaxed his hold on her. ‘Now why on earth didn’t you think to mention that before?’
‘I…I thought you would have just assumed…You know, I didn’t make a secret of it on purpose. They’re in the bathroom cabinet.’
‘Ah, well…obviously I wasn’t keeping my eyes as wide open as I ought to have done. Never mind. We can still practise for when the time comes, can’t we?’
‘Oh. Yes. Yes…there’s nothing I’d like better.’ She was silent for a moment and then managed to stutter, ‘Didn’t you think I would be on the Pill? It seemed like the right thing to do. I didn’t know you wanted a baby right away.’
Guy straightened up and let his arm drop to his side. ‘It’s OK, Jane. It’s your decision, after all. I guess I should have talked about these things sooner and found out where you stood.’
There was a silence and then Jane bit out, ‘Like when we were sitting across the table from each other in all those restaurants? It takes two to talk about nothing at all, you know.’
Guy flinched. ‘Touché,’ he said coldly.
‘Is that why you married me?’ she asked uncertainly, her blood chilling in her veins. ‘To have a…son and heir?’
‘Goddammit, Jane, what’s the matter with you? You’re talking as if marriage and babies had nothing whatsoever to do with each other.’
‘They don’t,’ she snapped. ‘Not these days. Not in England in the 1990s. Plenty of career women get married with no idea in their minds of having babies. And plenty of single women go ahead and have babies with no idea of ever getting married.’
‘But you stressed the first time we met that you were no career woman?’
‘Oh.’ Jane’s blood positively froze. ‘So you immediately assumed that the only alternative I had in mind was making babies as hard and fast as I could? No wonder I must have seemed like the perfect wife for you, Guy. In this day and age I must be something of a rarity.’
‘So what was the alternative form of marriage you had in mind? Dabbling in art appreciation classes? Swanning off to Stratford to catch up on the RSC’s latest production? Taking in a little culture on the side to keep the dinner party conversations flowing—to help steer the men away from boring old shop talk?’
‘I…I don’t believe this! I don’t! Look, I genuinely love art. And Shakespeare. I certainly don’t cultivate them as useful social attributes. And I didn’t marry you so that I could have someone to take me to the opera.’
‘What a shame. I have tickets for La Scala, next week. Rigoletto. Don’t you want to go?’
‘Not if you’re going to use it as a stick to beat me with.’
‘Now why should I do that, Jane? You’re my wife how. The social life is part of the grand scheme, isn’t it? We’ll go to Milan and stay somewhere nice and dine in the most expensive place and we’ll enjoy ourselves immensely at the opera,’ he said bitterly.
Jane sighed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘I’m sorry that there have been these misunderstandings between us when you wanted everything to be crystal clear from the start. It hardly seems fair. Of course I’ll go to the opera with you. I’ll enjoy it very much.’ The last time she had seen Rigoletto she had cried her eyes out. It was unbearably sad. ‘It all sounds perfect. Thank you very much for thinking of it.’
‘The pleasure,’ said Guy sarcastically, ‘will be all mine.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE trouble was, Jane reflected as they drove back in silence, that she was, after all, a modern Englishwoman. Mumtaz had assimilated the rules from birth—she knew exactly how arranged marriages should be. Whereas Jane had taken all her preconceptions about love and romance with her into this arrangement with Guy. Now that she thought about it, producing an heir was bound tobepartof the deal. Jane yearned quite desperately to have Guy’s child. Once he loved her, of course. She was quite sure of that. She was less certain of her ability to produce an heir to order. It just didn’t feel right.
Patience, she reminded herself wearily…that was all it needed. She looked across at him. It was still early days…but it would happen; she was sure of it. Her heart ached to think of him growing up with so little love. Guy had never had anyone who put his needs first When he realised that she was ready to put him first always—when he saw how willing she was to please him, then those ties which bound his emotions so tight would surely loosen. One day they would lie in each other’s arms and spill out all their dreams and laugh—together.
Back at the villa she watched Guy diving, somersaulting in what looked like a horribly dangerous fashion before slicing into the deep water. She waited for him to surface, frightened in case he had hit his head on the bottom. When he burst through the rippling blue water in a froth of white bubbles her heart jumped with relief.
‘Come on…’ he said, getting out of the water and making his way back to the boards. ‘Let me teach you…’
But Jane shook her head. ‘I’ve already told you…I don’t want to learn to do fancy diving.’
‘Are you afraid?’ he asked considerately, stopping and turning towards her.
But she simply shook her head again.
‘Then why not? You dive nicely off the side. You could be good.’
She shrugged. ‘I…it’s not my kind of thing.’
He sighed. ‘Then what is your kind of thing?’
‘I just want to be happy. To enjoy life, Guy. I’ve told you that before.’
‘And diving would put a stop to that?’
‘No. Of course not. It’s just…oh, dear, I can’t
explain it. I just don’t see the point in striving to do things like that for their own sake…I never have done. I’m not like you, you see. Everything you do, you do to perfection, don’t you?’
‘Oddly enough, that isn’t really true. I try to do things well only because it gives me pleasure. If the results are good then it owes more to luck than deliberation.’
She looked steadily at him. ‘You may not deliberately set out to achieve great things, Guy. Or at least, you may not think that you do. But it’s no accident that you always get exactly what you want from life. You set exceptionally high standards for yourself. They’re there, working away beneath the surface, all the time. And they bring success in their wake whether you want to acknowledge it or not. You’ll always be successful, Guy. You’ll always get exactly what you want.’
Guy looked at her quizzically. Then he said, ‘Does that mean you’ll come off the Pill?’
‘Not yet. I…I don’t feel quite ready yet. But I will have our baby. When the time comes.’
‘Don’t you want children, Jane?’
Jane nodded slowly. ‘I do. I really do. Eventually.’
‘Then why do you want to wait?’ asked Guy slowly.
‘Because…because I just don’t feel…’ She sighed. ‘Just give me time to come to terms with it all. OK?’
And Guy put a wet arm around her shoulder and held her close to him and said no more.
That evening Guy cooked her yet another meal.
‘Let me cook it,’ she pleaded.
‘Why? Don’t you like my cooking?’
‘Yes. Of course I do. But I can cook, too.’
But he just shrugged and went on dicing green peppers with a very sharp knife.
The next day he seemed irritable and impatient, and suggested driving down to the coast. They ended up on a beautiful, half-empty beach. No sooner had they settled themselves on the sand that Guy went off and hired a sailboard. ‘Do you want to do some windsurfing, too?’ he asked.
Jane shook her head. ‘No. I don’t know how. I’ve never tried.’
‘I’ll show you,’ he volunteered.
She hesitated for a moment. This was an opportunity to show him that she was willing to strive at something—to attempt, at least, to match his exacting standards—and to please him…She produced a smile from somewhere and said, ‘Great. I’ll enjoy that.’
In order to teach her he had to touch her. They stood waist-deep in water while he showed her where to put her hands and feet, and helped her squirm on to the board in order to get the feel of it. She wanted to shout out her love and grab hold of his big, wet shoulders and kiss him, and be held by him, there in the sea with the sailboards keeling towards them, their brilliantly coloured sails flapping about their heads.
Instead she concentrated on his instructions, and stood back admiringly while he demonstrated with his own board.
In fact, she learned well and was managing to stay upright for quite creditable periods of time by the end of the day. Disappointment, rejection, frustration— these, it seemed, were the keys to achievement. If Guy had travelled that route, then it wouldn’t hurt her to follow. It would bring them closer. Surely she would please him far more that way than by simply wallowing in the animal contentment that came from being his wife?
On the way back he asked, ‘Did you enjoy the windsurfing, Jane?’
‘Yes,’ she responded, surprised to find that it was the truth. ‘It was exhilarating—when I wasn’t falling off, that is.’
‘It’s a good sport, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you’re glad you made the effort?’
‘Yes, Guy. You were right, after all.’
You always are, she found herself thinking. But does that mean that I’m always wrong? Does it mean that you won’t learn to love me? And then she remembered Mumtaz wagging a finger at her and saying, ‘True love can only grow from respect, Jane…’ and she girded her loins.
‘Er…do you…um…do you respect me for trying?’ she asked.
Guy turned his head briefly from the road, and stole a glance at her. ‘What a funny question…’
‘Do you, though?’
‘Yes. If you put it like that, I suppose I do.’
The next day they returned to the same beach for water-skiing lessons. Jane coped well with this, too. However, she found it quite exhausting, and was relieved to return to her sun-lounger and toast her brown skin a deeper shade of brown while she watched Guy slice across the blue crescent of the bay in the wake of the speed-boat. At last he returned and flopped on to the sand beside her, making his sleek, shining body gritty with sand.
‘You’ve been pebble-dashed,’ she said.
He tried to brush the sand away but it stuck to his wet hand. He smiled. ‘I’ve heard of people being built like houses, but never of someone being rendered like one.’
Jane trailed her fingers in the sand and then suddenly picked up a handful and scattered it playfully over his broad back. ‘Some are born rendered,’ she intoned dramatically. ‘Some achieve rendering, and others have render thrust upon them…’ And then she slapped his big shoulders and rubbed the sand hard against his skin.
Guy flashed her a rare, broad smile. He was clearly amused. But she was disappointed. She had rather hoped to make him laugh for once.
‘You certainly know your Shakespeare,’ he said.
‘I love Shakespeare,’ she smiled. ‘I go to Stratford whenever I can—but I like reading him, too. We had to read the plays at school. Except for the rude bits, of course—we weren’t expected to know the rude bits. We were given expurgated versions at school.’
He had buried his face in a towel and was rubbing at his hair. ‘You mean your school censored Shakespeare? Good grief. And they call that an education?’ he muttered wryly.
‘It doesn’t seem to have done me much harm,’ Jane laughed. ‘After all, I seem to be managing the unexpurgated version of married life very well—despite my lack of formal education.’
‘Only because you’ve got such a good personal tutor…’ Guy returned, his eyes sharp with amusement, and then he threw down the towel and knelt beside her and kissed her.
It was the first time he had kissed her in a public place—except for the wedding service, which didn’t count because he had no choice—and she felt weak at the knees with delight. Because it must mean something. Mustn’t it?
When he stopped kissing her he flopped back on the sand and closed his eyes. Jane felt happier than she could ever remember feeling.
‘What shall we do now?’ he asked at last.
Jane opened her eyes very wide and said, ‘Don’t you ever get tired?’
Guy shook his head. ‘Not when I’m doing water sports,’ he replied. ‘Especially water-skiing. I love speed, Jane.’
She wrinkled up her nose disapprovingly. ‘Now don’t you do anything dangerous.’
Guy let out a relaxed, sardonic laugh. ‘And don’t you start turning into a nagging wife.’
‘Huh. Do you think it’s likely, Guy? What would be the point? I can’t see you being susceptible to nagging.’
‘Perhaps not…But if you didn’t mean to nag, then why did you say it?’
‘I was just—’ Just frightened of losing you. Because I love you. She stopped herself with difficulty. The sun and the sand, the laughter and the relaxation, and the kiss…They could so easily have seduced her into giving far too much away…‘Well, I just don’t want to have to cope with an accident, that’s all. I don’t speak Italian, for a start.’
Guy sighed. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t have any desire to put my life on the line. In fact, that’s why I like waterskiing so much. It feels fast and dangerous, but it’s very safe as long as you follow the rules.’
‘I certainly feel safe enough when you drive,’ remarked Jane. ‘At least you don’t indulge your love of speed behind the wheel of the car.’
‘Ha! That’s where you’re wrong. You’ve only been for a ride in one of m
y new cars, Jane. But I’ve got several 1960s sports cars, too. You know, the small ones which were so popular then? None of them is in mintcondition—to put it mildly—though of course I make sure that they’re well maintained. But I also make sure they still suffer from the odd bump and rattle. Then, with the hood down, on a sunny day, they provide the perfect ride. I only need to get up to about forty miles an hour to feel as if I’m about to take off into space. And by the time I hit the speed limit I feel as if I’m at Silverstone!’
He paused for a moment and then added, ‘I satisfy my needs these days by substituting the illusion for the real thing. And it works just beautifully. Clever, huh?’
And then Jane opened her enormous, dark eyes and looked at him and found herself quite unable to reply. Because all of a sudden she understood that she was like one of those old cars to him. A safe substitute for the real thing. She was being tinkered with in the interests of creating the perfect illusion. Wind-surfing and waterskiing, customised cars and seats at La Scala…but he didn’t want her to cook or make a home for him or do any of the things a real wife should do. True, she would be allowed to bear him his child—as long as she handed it over to a substitute mother as soon as it was born. Presumably, then, the illusion would be complete. In his eyes it would have all worked out just beautifully. Clever, huh?
The trip to Milan was wonderful. The opera was everything she had remembered, and suberbly produced. She recited her times-tables in her head towards the end and concentrated on the orchestra and managed not to cry. Later, she would remember not to talk about it either.
When the applause had finally died away she turned to Guy and smiled and said, ‘That was marvellous. I did enjoy it.’
And when the house lights went up and she looked around, she was pleased to discover that none of the other glittering young wives was crying, either. Now wasn’t she doing well?
The rest of the week they stayed at the villa, loafing around and making love. Then, one afternoon, after they had eaten lunch and drunk wine at the poolside, and Guy had demolished The Times and the Financial Times—which had mysteriously started appearing—he scratched the hairs on his chest and then stretched, and said, ‘I’ve got a few phone calls to make, Jane. Will you be OK for the rest of the afternoon?’
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