by Joan Smith
She got up and began pacing up and down the room, one hand supporting her chin. She had postponed thinking about the title, assuming that when the time came a phrase from one of the novels or from a letter would stand out, something short and memorable which might catch the imagination of the general reader as well as the specialist. A thought occurred to her, and she returned to the computer, removing the disc which contained the final chapters of the book and replacing it with another on which she had stored the introduction. Moving the cursor through the text she found what she was looking for, assessments of Edith Wharton by Edmund Wilson and Virginia Woolf. Wilson had described her as a ‘passionate social prophet’; Woolf said she wrote about ‘men and women who confront their fate’. Loretta shook her head, disappointed. Her memory had played her false; neither phrase was pithy or memorable enough to turn into a title.
‘Shit,’ she said, swapping the discs back again. She was wondering whether to have a break – a visit to the sales was a tempting distraction after two days’ solid work – when the phone rang.
‘Hello?’ Loretta said into the receiver, surprised. She was the only person in the silent English department, and she was not expecting any calls.
‘So you really are at work – quite the busy bee, eh?’
‘Sandra?’ Loretta’s heart sank. She had left her work number scribbled on a piece of paper the day before in response to a request from Sandra, but she was far from happy to hear her voice. After the scene on Tuesday evening she had done her best to avoid her; hadn’t even inquired whether Sandra had acted on her suggestion of cleaning up the Notting Hill flat.
She realized that Sandra was asking about the progress of her book, a subject in which she had previously shown no interest. Puzzled and wary, Loretta explained that the text was complete, but the title was giving her trouble.
‘But that must be the easiest bit,’ Sandra told her. ‘All you need is two or three words, and you’ve already written – what, fifty thousand?’
‘Ninety-eight thousand,’ Loretta said proudly, having run a word count on the computer that morning. ‘Not including notes and the bibliography, of course. And there’s still the index, but I think I’m going to pay someone to do that.’
‘Blimey,’ said Sandra, ‘who’s going to read all that? Ninety-eight thousand words! Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, I’m sure. . . Why don’t you use one of her titles? That’s what she’s famous for, isn’t it? I read a couple of them years ago and all I remember is the titles, I couldn’t tell you the plot. Not the title exactly, but something – you know what I mean.’
‘Yes, I think. . .’ Loretta paused, looking at the spines of the Edith Wharton novels sitting on her desk: The Mother’s Recompense, The House of Mirth, The Custom of the Country, The Age of Innocence, The Fruit of the Tree. . . She had the beginnings of an idea.
‘So – what are your plans for this evening?’
‘Sorry?’ Loretta had missed the question completely, her mind fully occupied by the business of her title.
‘This evening – New Year’s Eve. I just wondered if you’d got anything planned. . .’
‘Oh yes, I’m going to a party,’ Loretta said absently. If she took the Virginia Woolf quote and turned it around ... It took her a moment to realize that Sandra had gone uncharacteristically silent.
‘Sandra? Are you still there?’
She heard a sigh. ‘Yes. Don’t worry – I remember now, you said Robert was coming ... I was going to suggest taking you out to dinner, but – it doesn’t matter.’ She sounded forlorn.
‘Oh Sandra, I’m so sorry.’ Loretta suffered an attack of guilt, suddenly conscious that Sandra had now spent the best part of a week alone in the flat. And it was generous of her to offer to buy dinner when she’d admitted to being short of money. . .
‘We’re meeting a couple of friends at a restaurant and going on to a party,’ she explained. ‘Robert arranged it ages ago – I’m terribly sorry.’
‘Forget I mentioned it, really.’ Sandra tried to sound casual but Loretta could tell she was disappointed. It occurred to her to invite Sandra to the party, but she restrained herself on account of Robert’s probable reaction.
‘Oh dear,’ she said lamely, ‘I didn’t think – I tell you what, why don’t we go out to lunch tomorrow? Somewhere’s bound to be open. We could go for a walk afterwards. . .’ Robert wouldn’t be enthusiastic about this plan either, Loretta thought; she wasn’t keen herself, but she felt better for making the offer. He might well decide not to come, which would be the most satisfactory solution.
‘Yes – lunch sounds great.’ Sandra sounded a bit more cheerful. ‘I must go – I’m keeping you from your work.’
‘It doesn’t mat –’
There was a click, and the line went dead. Loretta pressed the rest and got a dialling tone, but hesitated and put the receiver back. There was no point in speaking to Sandra again; the arrangement with Robert had been made long before her unexpected phone call on Christmas Eve. Loretta thought for a moment, staring into space, then returned with renewed energy to the question of the right form of words for her title.
She arrived home that evening clutching a thick parcel which contained the typescript of her book. It had churned out of the department’s two laser printers in the course of the day while Loretta hurriedly marked a pile of essays which she was due to hand back at the beginning of the spring term. She had also slipped out to the sales and the product of that trip, a little black dress from Liberty’s, was wrapped in tissue paper in a purple carrier bag which she put down on the hall floor as the stair light went out behind her.
‘Sandra, it’s me,’ she called out, suddenly aware of the silence in the flat. At the sound of her voice the grey cat padded downstairs, a light shape in the darkness, letting out the low miaows which signalled both hunger and pleasure. Loretta turned on the hall light, bent to stroke him, then straightened up and peered into the kitchen. Unwashed dishes from Sandra’s breakfast stood haphazardly on the table, and a half-chewed crust of bread lay on the floor, presumably abandoned there by the cat.
‘Wait a minute,’ she told him, leaving the kitchen for the drawing-room. She switched on the light and was dismayed by what she saw; the sofa-bed had not been folded up, and a jumble of bedding and clothes, including Sandra’s lilac kimono, lay on top of it.
‘Oh God.’ Loretta groaned, staring at the mess. She turned, went out of the room, and started up the stairs.
‘Sandra?’ The light was on in the bathroom but the door swung open to Loretta’s touch, revealing a used bath towel on the floor but no other evidence of Sandra’s presence. Loretta grunted, stepped backwards and put her head round the door into her bedroom. One glance was enough to tell her that it was as she had left it; at least Sandra had spared this room her attentions. Loretta went back downstairs, fed the cat, then set about tidying up. It had occurred to her to leave everything just as it was until Sandra returned to the flat – she had not left a note, and would probably reappear shortly – but Loretta could not bear to see the place in such a state. Grumbling silently to herself, she washed up the plate from which Sandra had eaten bacon, egg and tomatoes, the frying-pan, a dish which appeared to have had the egg broken into it, sundry knives and forks, a mug with thick coffee sludge at the bottom, and a crumb-strewn tea-plate. Then she wiped the table with a damp cloth, switched on the kettle for a cup of tea, and headed for the drawing-room.
There she folded up Sandra’s kimono, along with a newly ironed blouse and skirt which seemed to have been tried on and then thrown to one side. Reluctant to open either of the bags standing in a corner of the room, she made a neat pile of the clothes and bedding, restored the sofa-bed to its upright position, and left them on top. Then she returned to the kitchen, made herself a cup of Earl Grey tea, chatted to the cat while she drank it, and went upstairs to run a bath.
‘Not more black.’ Robert, who had just kissed her, stepped back to examine Loretta’s new dress.
‘All right, I was only teasing,’ Robert said, putting his arms round her again. ‘You look very – sophisticated.’
‘Thank you.’ Loretta relaxed, and returned his kiss. She felt a tingling sensation in the pit of her stomach, and was glad Sandra hadn’t come back. She was about to slip her tongue into Robert’s mouth when, oblivious of her mood, he released her.
‘No Sandra?’ he asked, putting his head round the door of the drawing-room. ‘Do I take it she’s – oh, I see she hasn’t.’
‘She’s out,’ Loretta said, smoothing down her dress to hide her disappointment. ‘I don’t know where she is. Can I get you a drink?’
‘Depends who’s driving.’
‘Oh, we can get taxis, surely?’
‘We might have trouble getting back,’ Robert pointed out. ‘It is New Year’s Eve.’
‘But we won’t be in a hurry.’ The later they got back the better, Loretta thought; Sandra had waited up for them on Christmas Eve, and Loretta had felt oddly embarrassed when the time came to say goodnight and go upstairs with Robert.
‘No-o. But – well, if you don’t mind taking the risk. . .’
‘I’d rather do that than drive.’
‘So be it. Let’s skip the drink, anyway. We can have one at the restaurant.’
Loretta shrugged, reaching for her coat, and picked up her bag. Robert strolled out on to the landing, turned on the stair light, and waited while Loretta shooed the cat back inside the flat. Then he led the way down, pausing at the street door to ask Loretta if she wanted to bet on how long they’d have to wait for a cab.
‘Certainly not.’ She sighed, wondering why Robert was in a bad mood, and opened the street door. Stepping out on to the pavement, she hoped he would not be like this all evening. Then she lunged forward, waving frantically at a taxi which was speeding down Liverpool Road towards her. It screeched to a halt several yards beyond her, and Loretta hurried to the window to tell the driver where they were going. She heard Robert come up behind her, turned to him and pulled open the back door of the cab.
‘After you, sir,’ she called out, gesturing inside. Robert hesitated, gave her a quizzical look, and preceded her into the taxi. As it moved off Loretta felt her spirits rise. Her book was finished, a new year was beginning, and she was aware of a sudden surge of affection for Robert. She leaned towards him, gave him a peck on the cheek, and looked away to conceal a smile as he turned to her in surprise.
They arrived back at Loretta’s flat at two-thirty in the morning of New Year’s Day, drunk and in high spirits. Loretta tiptoed up the stairs to her front door with exaggerated care, frequently turning, finger on lips, to remind Robert that they mustn’t wake Sandra. The effect was spoiled when she noisily dropped her keys; she cast an agonized glance at the top of Robert’s head as he picked them up for her, sure that Sandra wouldn’t have slept through the clatter.
‘Let me,’ Robert enunciated clearly, ignoring Loretta’s outstretched hand. To her delight, he succeeded in fitting the keys in the lock only at the third attempt.
‘See! You’re drunk too –’
‘Shhh,’ Robert hissed, flapping one hand behind his back as Loretta followed him into the flat. ‘Remember what you said – oh.’ He stopped abruptly in the hall, and Loretta bumped into him from behind. ‘She’s. . . not here.’
‘Not here?’ Loretta repeated the words as if unable to grasp their meaning, then pushed past him. ‘Oh. I see.’ She swayed towards the open door of the drawing-room, where the light from the hall was sufficient to reveal that the sofa was as she had left it, Sandra’s clothes and the spare bedding in a neat pile at one end.
‘Stra-ange.’ Loretta turned, staring at Robert as though he might be able to provide the answer to this mystery, then moved towards the stairs. ‘Sandra!’
‘Shhh!’ Robert said for the second time.
Loretta, by now halfway up the stairs, peered down at him. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she scolded, unnaturally loud. ‘She’s not here. Sandra!’ She turned and looked upwards into the darkness.
‘If she’s not here,’ Robert said with wounded dignity, ‘why’re you calling her?’
Loretta ignored him and continued her slow progress up the stairs, holding the rail tightly with her right hand. There was a miaow from behind, and she looked back to see Bertie rubbing himself joyfully against Robert’s calves. She resumed her journey, pausing on the landing before checking the bathroom and bedroom. Both were as she had left them.
‘Not here,’ she said, coming slowly down the stairs, a preoccupied look on her face.
Robert shrugged his shoulders. ‘Gone to a party,’ he said confidently.
Loretta shook her head. ‘No. No one to go with. Wanted to come with us. She was at loosh – a loose end.’ She swallowed, aware of a strange, dizzy sensation in her head, and a dryness in her throat. ‘Drunk too much.’ She swayed unhappily towards Robert.
‘Never mind.’ He leaned forward, putting one hand clumsily round the back of her head and attempting to stroke her hair. ‘Come to bed.’ He tried to kiss her. Loretta pushed him away.
‘What –’ She summed up her remaining strength. ‘What we going to do about Sandra?’
‘What about her?’ Robert pulled Loretta towards him, getting a firmer grip this time. ‘Let’s go. . . bed.’ The words came out slurred, and they both swayed a little.
‘But –’
‘She’s all right. She’s having ... a wonderful time.’ He kissed Loretta again, simultaneously moving her towards the stairs.
She resisted half-heartedly, torn between the sensations produced by his hand on her left breast and an uneasy sense that there was something she ought to do. She gave in, allowing herself to be propelled upstairs and into the bedroom.
‘Let’s ... on the bed. Out!’
Skilfully for one who had drunk so much, Robert manoeuvred the cat on to the landing and slammed the bedroom door. He pushed Loretta in the direction of the bed, and she was aware of a sharp pain in her shoulder as they collided with the rail of the brass bed. Then they had rounded the tricky corner and Robert was pressing her down on to the quilt. One of his hands was at her knees, rolling up her tight black dress, and she sat up to help him, pushing him away just long enough to drag it over her head and toss it to the floor. Then she lay back, pulling Robert with her, naked to the waist and oblivious of everything but her desire.
They spent the morning in bed, Loretta waking just after eleven with a splitting headache while Robert was still asleep; she made her way painfully downstairs in search of orange juice, vitamin C, and a couple of paracetamol tablets. Bertie protested noisily on discovering that he was expected to survive on mackerel-flavoured dry biscuits, but Loretta felt too nauseated to face opening his usual can of Whiskas. She returned to bed and went almost immediately back to sleep, waking up a couple of hours later to find herself alone. After a few minutes Robert appeared; he had a surly look on his face, carried a cup of black coffee in one hand, and was stark naked.
‘Robert! What about Sandra?’
‘She’s not back. Sorry, you were still asleep when I got up.’ He put down the cup, climbed into bed and lay back against the pillows, a hand to his head.
‘Not back?’ The events of the night before were hazily coming back to Loretta. ‘Then where –’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Wait a minute, what’s the time? Quarter past one? But I’m supposed to be having lunch with her!’ Loretta looked down at Robert, who was lying with his eyes closed.
‘I expect she’s forgotten. Lie down, Loretta, let’s go back to sleep.’
‘But – I think I’ll have a bath. Don’t forget your coffee.’
; Loretta got out of bed and stood uncertainly beside it, not knowing what to make of Sandra’s continuing absence.
‘Mmm?’ Robert suddenly opened his eyes.
‘I said don’t forget your coffee.’
‘No, I –’ The rest of what he said was inaudible as he rolled over and went back to sleep.
Loretta frowned, hooked her dressing-gown off the back of the door, and went to the bathroom.
When Sandra still hadn’t returned the next morning, Robert suggested she had managed to track down friends whose company she found more congenial than theirs.
‘I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss, Loretta,’ he told her shortly. He rarely consumed enough alcohol to give him a hangover, and this one seemed to be lasting a very long time – or its effect on his temper was. ‘You admit you can’t stand her – you should be grateful she’s not here.’
‘I just don’t understand it,’ Loretta persisted, anxiety getting the better of her. ‘Her missing lunch yesterday, I mean. I had the impression she was a bit lonely, I thought she was keen. And she hasn’t left a note –’
‘For heaven’s sake, Loretta, you’re not her keeper. She’ll come back in her own good time.’
Robert was buttoning his overcoat, getting ready to go back to Oxfordshire. Loretta knew it was a mistake to labour the point of Sandra’s non-appearance, but needed reassurance.
‘I hope you’re right,’ she said without conviction.
‘Of course I’m right!’ Robert leaned forward and touched her cheek. ‘Now – stop worrying! Promise?’
‘Mmm,’ Loretta said non-committally.
Robert shook his head. ‘You – ah, while I think of it, what about the concert on Friday?’
‘I’ll have to ring you,’ Loretta said distractedly, running a hand through her hair. ‘I haven’t got a new diary and I don’t know whether I’m supposed to be going out to dinner on Friday evening or Saturday. Is that all right?’