Greyglass

by Tanith Lee

  Perhaps meeting anyone, here, talking to anyone, here – which generally, so far, for a whole seven weeks, Susan had meticulously avoided – was going to feel peculiar.

  She had after all met so many people here, and none of them the original person, which person she had met over and over until she was nearly thirteen, but never met, never, in any real sense of the word.

  Susan was thirty when two quite major things happened in her life. First she won the Cameron Award for Book Cover Art and Design, a prize that made her dear to Paragon Books, and also enhanced her bank balance with an astonishing ten thousand pounds. The following month, at a party thrown by Paragon, she was introduced to R.J. He was the writer whose work had had her prize-winning jacket.

  “I liked your cover,” he said, rather stiffly, “thank you.”

  After all the fulsome praise, this sounded grudging and awkward. Susan assumed R.J. had not liked her cover for his book at all.

  It had been a difficult novel to exemplify. Ornamental yet subtle and convoluted, but having to have Paragon’s required bold, eye-catching image. In the end Susan had constructed the artwork from layers of cut and pasted paper, a method she hadn’t employed for some years. The three main characters of the book, represented in this glowing, yet ghostly and fragmented way, seemed to catch the eye of everyone, the prize committee included.

  Susan was never sure what she thought, but then she never was with her own handiwork. Sometimes, looking, months or years after, at covers she and other people had only thought adequate, she sensed genuine effectiveness. Conversely, jackets which had been enthused over repeatedly, seemed lacking in anything save the careful draughtsmanship she had learned.

  She still thought of herself as a fraud who had somehow managed to fool them all, Paragon in particular, that she was a bona fide artist. In the beginning, when she had had to work full-time in Paragon’s art department, and was herself commissioned only to execute one or two covers a year, Susan had thought this was probably her proper station. When more cover work came her way she was always sure she would soon be found out. And since the award, she lived in a sort of ironic guilty alarm, waiting for the clock at midnight.

  “I’m sorry, I did try to reflect something of the novel, but I felt I hadn’t. It’s a complex book. And mostly in – quartertones. The watercolours I did though, were hopeless.”

  R.J. gazed at Susan over his glass of red wine. He still looked preoccupied, but seeming to hear her now, if from a great way off.

  “But you won the Cameron,” he said.

  “Yes. That was wonderful.”

  She felt self-conscious at confessing to him what he must already know, her failure to do justice to his work.

  She also felt frightened of him, had done so as soon as she saw him, a thing that hadn’t happened for approximately a decade.

  R.J. was forty-four, as his book jacket copy told anyone who cared to read it. He was tall, about six foot three, and heavily built, though it was bone and muscle, not excess flesh. He had an olive complexion, like a Spaniard or Greek, neither of which he was, dry dark curling hair beginning to lose its pigment, and bloodshot golden-yellow eyes like a bird of prey.

  “Your glass is empty,” he said next.

  “Yes. I don’t want any more wine.”

  “Let me get you an orange juice,” he said, and turning round plucked one, she thought, fantastically, from thin air. This he handed to her. “No,” he said, “I did like your cover. I didn’t recognise it, that’s all.”

  “No.”

  “But you get used to that, and at least it was attractive. It was elegant, in fact. It reminded me – not of art but music. Bach, totally precise yet cunningly split in overlapping sections.”

  “Your book reminded me of Chopin, the piano concertos,” she returned boldly, because she felt timid and refused to be. And because he had said something that might have been pretentious, but it was not, and she wanted to aid and abet this, somehow.

  “Really? Chopin. Why?”

  “I can’t explain. It’s sadness… the under-orchestration – I don’t understand music technically.”

  “And you read my book too,” he said. “Few illustrators bother to do that now. They just want a note of what to draw. And my God, you’ve helped sell it for me, you know.”

  Then he half turned and said, “Oh, that’s my wife signalling. I’ll catch you later, Susan.”

  Rod Ayres had actually got her the job at Paragon. Or, his ‘friend’ Mike Hammond had done so. Mike had leafed through her folder as Rod perched on a chair-arm, a fifty-year-old avuncular teenager. “There’s some pretty good stuff here, Susan. And your qualifications are fine. Now, you’ve done this design course, you say?”

  Susan, on Rod’s suggestion, had done six months by then of the course, for which the council had refused her a grant, but Anne had sent her money.

  Rod said, “She’s a star pupil, Mike,” and Mike had looked at him, and long after, when Susan was working for Paragon as a dogsbody in the art department, Mike had said, “Do you still see Rod?”

  “Oh, no,” Susan had said.

  “That’s probably as well. I think he was a bit serious about you.”

  And embarrassed by it all, and by Rod, she had said forcefully, “It wasn’t ever anything like that. He was my college tutor, that’s all.” But Mike only shrugged.

  Of course, there had been the inevitable scene, after she got the job, when Rod insisted – that was insisted – on taking her for a meal in an Italian restaurant.

  He ordered a bottle of wine, (the first of three) at once, and before the food came downed three large glasses. He kept talking about the divorce he had had from his wife ‘last August’, stressing he was a free man, saying the things he would like now to do, such as going to France or Rome to paint in the summer, trying to entice her.

  They ordered desert, which Susan didn’t want, but, “Oh you must. Go on. Look, they’ve got Death-By-Chocolate –” disappointed when she only selected a fruit salad, and saying, “God, I hope you’re not trying to lose weight, Susan. You’re lush and lissom, you know, just right –” so she felt herself redden. Rod had the chocolate death, spooning it up like a famished child. Then he reached across and took her hand.

  “You’ll come with me to France, won’t you, Susan?”

  “To France?” She looked blank, surprised. “Why?”

  “Why. You know why. I thought you understood what I’ve been trying to say.”

  “No,” she said dimly.

  Rod still didn’t give up. He leaned towards her in a wave of Mandate and said, “I really like you,” in an eager young voice.

  “Oh – I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Now you do.”

  “You see, I’m – with someone.”

  He looked at her. Then he drew back. “Oh yes?”

  “Yes. We’ve been together for a year.”

  “You never mentioned it.”

  “Well… I didn’t see how it was relevant.”

  “Come on.”

  Ashamed now of herself, (though why? It wasn’t because she was lying) she looked away and said, “I’m sorry. But Joe and I are living together.”

  “Joe.”

  “I’m in love with him,” she rushed out angrily. “I’m not going to want anyone else.”

  Rod looked both squashed and belligerent. “I think you might have said. I’ve been trying to help you.”

  Susan wanted to say, So you wouldn’t have helped me if you thought there was nothing in it for you? But she said, “Yes, I know. Thank you. You’ve been very kind.” And then, fawningly, hollowly, “I’d never think someone like you would be interested in me.”

  “Why not?” he roared, making other people turn and stare, to add to the jollity of the occasion. “I’m too old, is that it?”

  Then he pushed back his chair, which drunkenly fell over, threw some notes on the table, and walked right out of the restaurant. Leaving her to se
ttle the bill, which after three bottles of wine and the deathly chocolate was considerable; the twenty pounds he had flung down did not remotely cover it. Luckily Susan had meant to go to Sainsbury’s on the way home and brought extra cash.

  About ten days after this, a letter arrived. ‘Dearest Susan, can you forgive my irrational behaviour?’ It hadn’t been, she thought, at all irrational, perfectly logical. ‘I know the situation with your boyfriend, but I’d still like to see you. Nothing heavy. Do say you will–’

  She tore the letter up and put it in the bin.

  Two weeks later, receiving a now regular monthly pay cheque, she had moved into another flat, where she would not have to share a bathroom. She did not send Rod Ayres her new address.

  Following the Paragon party, where she had met R.J., Susan began work on a cover commission for a difficult manuscript she had been trying to read without much success. Something strange occurred. The book’s anti-hero had dark curling hair and eyes described as hazel. Though in his late thirties, the anti-hero now assumed the lineaments of R.J. And suddenly, Susan could read the book. She tore up her provisional sketches and started inadvertently to draw R.J. She had been warned before never to use the appearance of any well-known actor, even where the author likened a protagonist to one. Houses had apparently been sued.

  Susan did draw R.J. however, several times, on a sketchpad. The drawings dissatisfied her, naturally.

  Four or five nights after the party, she dreamed she and R.J. were walking in London; somewhere, she thought, near to the British Museum.

  The next morning he called her.

  “Hello, Susan.”

  She knew who it was and her breathing stopped. She said, without a breath, and uncertainly, “Hello…?”

  “I’d like to talk to you. Is that possible?”

  “…yes.”

  “That’s good. Shall we meet for a drink somewhere? Do you have a place you like?”

  When she went to meet him that evening, the compendium of terror and joy she felt worried Susan almost in proportion to her exhilaration.

  She kept saying to herself that undoubtedly he only meant to discuss something to do with business. Perhaps he had a contract with another publishing house and wanted her for another cover, there, which might cause bad feeling since she still worked part-time in Paragon’s art department.

  Now and then too she reminded herself he was married, and had made no secret of it in front of her.

  He was waiting for her outside the wine-bar, greeted her with a grave, absorbed face, and opened the glass door for her to go through.

  They sat in a window, looking out over the river and its lights. It was spring, the dark still came early.

  “That was nice, that you agreed to meet me. I like your dress very much.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But then, I like everything about you, Susan. Look, I’m not going to muck around. I’ll just say it straight, and then if you’re not interested, we’ll finish our drinks and part friends. Okay?”

  Stunned, mesmerised, Susan nodded.

  “I’m married. I think you saw my wife. She’s a lovely and intelligent woman. I won’t say I’ve never had any relationships outside our marriage before. But it’s only happened twice in twenty years. Frankly, they didn’t mean that much, and both were some time ago. Then, I met you. I’d like to know you, Susan. And I’d like to make love with you more than I can say. I felt there was something between us – or was I just being presumptuous?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Oh good, thank God.” The smile broke through his face, relieved and flame-like, dazzling her. “But is the fact of my marriage a problem for you? I know it should be. It should be for me, and in a way it is, but – well. I realise this isn’t a very salubrious offer.”

  “I don’t care,” Susan said.

  She didn’t, not then.

  The wine-bar was lit by an intense bright lambency, which increased and increased, because she could plainly see it shone also for him, he felt it too.

  And when he took her hand, her blood filled with a tingling sexuality that travelled through her whole body in an instant, waking every inch of her skin, outside and in, undeniable and irresistible, making age, marriage, even life, irrelevant.

  It was one of those part-time days when she still put in at Paragon. When Susan got home, in the black December evening, there was the package for Crissie Fielding sitting where she had left it, on the table in the kitchen.

  Susan looked at it. Then she poured herself a glass of white wine from the fridge. Taking the glass and the package through into the main room, she sat down there.

  The main room of this flat was large and very beautiful from its proportions, its faultless ivory walls, and the high, high, ceiling, which was painted a translucent lavender. None of the floor-length windows were square, but Gothically arched at their tops. In here, one of these had an opaque, smooth white pane, set about with round jewels of purple and topaz stained glass. This window would have looked out on the entry and a wall, a dark space the architect obviously thought was better obscured. But Susan didn’t mind the white window; she found its nacre opacity mysterious. The other windows in the room were on the opposite side, French ones stretching from floor almost to ceiling. These gave onto the gardens, her semi-private area. Three steps led down to where, against the evergreen mass of two flourishing firs, a small ivied stone Pan stood on goat legs, playing a syrinx. Beyond the curve of the trees, a green lawn, regularly mown, tumbled to a lily pond and stands of birch, after which bay trees filled the view. The gardens were magnificent, as the agent had proclaimed when showing her round. And though communal to all the flats, Susan had seldom met anyone in them, except the old man with the little dog from Flat 14G. Maybe moving in halfway through October accounted for this. On the other side of the trio of steps down to the garden, was an ironwork bench, coloured deep peacock blue. Sometimes, on an unseasonably sunny morning, Susan had sat there with her coffee. The master bedroom, which opened straight off the main room, also had French windows to the garden, these not needing steps.

  Susan tapped her fingers on the package for 6C.

  She had come to terms with this flat. In fact, she hadn’t had to. Not really. Everything was so changed. And after the succession of rooms and poky ‘self-containeds’ she had had before, this was a palace. Too enjoyable not to enjoy.

  So. The next step was simply to deliver a small light box to a neighbour. To ring her bell, and say, “This came for you.”

  It was nothing.

  Nothing.

  Susan put down her wine, got up and carried the package to her front door.

  When she opened it, looking across the waxed wood floor of the well-maintained outer hall, she studied the exterior of 6C. Indeed, it was identical to her own door, and painted indigo, like all the doors in this section of Tower Gardens.

  (“There are, in all, thirty-five flats, of one, two, three or four bedrooms,” the agent had announced, grandly. “They seldom come on the market.”)

  6C was silent, as ever. Was Ms Crissie Fielding even in? Perhaps she wasn’t.

  Susan took a step across the hall, and a sudden coldness enveloped her, despite the radiator which warmed the corridor.

  6C was part of the sunken rooms. Yes, it was. Just as her own flat was, but you would never know, everything had been altered, partitioned, opened out, even the landscape of the garden.

  Then she was at the door and she had rung the bell.

  And again she thought, Perhaps she’s not in.

  The first time, they went to a hotel he had found, quite pleasant. They had lunch, which she couldn’t eat, and then went up to a comfortable, clean room. The story was they had a plane to catch that evening, and needed to sleep, any luggage having gone on ahead. They acted up to this pretence, but whether anyone believed it, or cared, who knew.

  Susan was frightened and nervous when she was alone in the room with R.J. But the moment he touched her, bega
n to kiss her and hold her, and explore her with his hands, the most violent desire flooded her body. She had never felt anything exactly like this. It was like diving into a fiery sea. Her need gave her, too, a confidence she had never known during sex. She lost her politeness, diffidence. Any outer awareness. She wanted him to do all and everything to her, and to do the same to him, and when their untrammelled actions reached their heights, she felt herself let go of everything.

  After Patrick, she had had a few brief affairs – they could not be called relationships. She had always liked sex very much, found it easy and rewarding – but beyond the obvious pleasure, unimportant.

  It was not that, with R.J., her ultimate pleasure heightened – although she suspected orgasm had changed its aspect – but the act became earth-shatteringly significant. Afterwards she could not stop thinking about what had happened twice in the hotel bed. Just as, from the first, she had not been able to stop thinking about R.J.

  They met a couple of times every month, usually Thursdays, sometimes Friday. He lived in Hampshire, and travelling into London could only be managed like this. She wondered how he did manage even this. Presumably his wife, (who Susan knew from the party was called Maria) thought his trips were to do with his writing – jaunts to research, buy books, or visit necessary sites, publishers and agents. Or did she think that? Although never asking him, Susan sensed that perhaps R.J.’s Maria knew where he went, even with whom.

  Some people had such arrangements. Didn’t mind it. Did Maria also have somebody else?

  The trouble was, R.J. was nothing to do with Maria, or anyone else. He was only to do with Susan.

  She knew this was absurd. Incredibly they had their separate lives and did not only come into sentience in each other’s proximity.

  Sometimes R.J. could manage a night, even two, away. Then he came to stay with Susan in the latest of her self-contained Lilliputs, the one in Brashspeare Road.

  These were holiday times, sometimes even extending through part of a weekend. They would cook meals in the tiny kitchen, eat out at pubs by the river, walk along the towpaths and over the local common. Their lovemaking grew slower and more sensual. They slept back to back. They told each other things about their lives, things about work and inspiration, and self-doubt, and necessary arrogance, their childhoods, people they had known. No one too recent, though. No one who had been a serious lover. Or a wife.