though her mouth could scarcely bring itself to utter the word aloud, so rich, strange and dangerous a concept it seemed, she had whispered the information into Christie’s ear as they lay together in their marital bed.
In the morning, this feat accomplished, she is languid, replete and gratified. But what is Christie saying? Why is he calling her names? He who so embraced and pleasured her in the night—and yes, at breakfast ate his bacon and drank his coffee in so unusually companionable a way—what are these words he uses now? Exhibitionist, slattern? What has she done? Her dress? Exposing her breasts like a tart?
But the day is hot. She chose the dress because the day is hot, and that is all, she swears—and not, as he alleges now, to seduce their host in his Sussex cottage, husband of her dearest friend. Christie is cruel, unjust, sadistic. Her happiness crumbles. The children cry. The nursemaid is white with horror.
Now, it is true that the host much admires Grace’s bosom. It is true that she would like to annoy her friend. It is true that the events of the night before and the power she then exerted over Christie, and which he now so fears and resents, have extended her erotic fancies towards all the men in the world, and not just her best friend’s husband. Christie is not so wrong as he in his poor cold heart suspects he is. So far as Grace is concerned she is totally innocent. She chose the dress because the day is hot; her eyes fill with tears. Christie has ruined her day, her life, her future. She stammers hurt and bitter words, and he stalks off silently to his office.
It is the first Sunday in seven months he has taken off from work, and see how she has ruined it?
Grace tells this story often, as evidence of Christie’s malevolence and general impossibility, and her own fortitude, for her response to the incident was, very sensibly, to learn to drive, and to pass the test first time. And since Christie would not let her drive the Mercedes in case she damaged the gear-box, she sold herself for fifty pounds to an Armenian violinist in his bedroom in the Regents Park Hotel, in order to buy a car of her own. Or so she said.
Though Christie’s second wife Geraldine, the social worker, said very differently.
‘I know for a fact,’ she said to Chloe once, ‘that Grace only passed the test on the fourth try. As for sleeping with an Armenian for money, that is typical of one of Grace’s sick fantasies—and part of her mental illness, I’m afraid, and further evidence, if any is necessary, that she is not fit to see the children at weekends. The Regents Park Hotel! Women just don’t behave like that, and if they did, I’m sure the hotel porter doesn’t let them in. It’s a very respectable place. I’ve been there to tea. And fifty pounds! Who would pay that much for Grace? Armenians are a very shrewd race, the market price for prostitutes is three pounds, and our currency is not all that difficult to master. She is quite frigid, poor Grace, according to Christie, and that of course is part of her trouble.
‘As for that Sunday, Christie didn’t go to the office in a temper, but because he’d had a phone-call to say one of his buildings was falling down, and he was needed on site.’
This last statement certainly had the ring of truth. Christie was a civil engineer and his buildings were frequently falling down.
Chloe quite liked Geraldine, and was sorry for her, believing Grace when she said that Christie had married Geraldine, that respectable young woman, merely to gain custody of the children. And though Geraldine, at that time, possessed to a marked degree the cool and irritating smugness of the untried and childless wife, who knows that a little goodwill, a little common sense and a little self-discipline will solve all problems—be they matrimonial, social or political—Chloe knew that life and time would soon cure all that.
As indeed they did. Once the children were safely and
In the morning, this feat accomplished, she is languid, replete and gratified. But what is Christie saying? Why is he calling her names? He who so embraced and pleasured her in the night—and yes, at breakfast ate his bacon and drank his coffee in so unusually companionable a way—what are these words he uses now? Exhibitionist, slattern? What has she done? Her dress? Exposing her breasts like a tart?
But the day is hot. She chose the dress because the day is hot, and that is all, she swears—and not, as he alleges now, to seduce their host in his Sussex cottage, husband of her dearest friend. Christie is cruel, unjust, sadistic. Her happiness crumbles. The children cry. The nursemaid is white with horror.
Now, it is true that the host much admires Grace’s bosom. It is true that she would like to annoy her friend. It is true that the events of the night before and the power she then exerted over Christie, and which he now so fears and resents, have extended her erotic fancies towards all the men in the world, and not just her best friend’s husband. Christie is not so wrong as he in his poor cold heart suspects he is. So far as Grace is concerned she is totally innocent. She chose the dress because the day is hot; her eyes fill with tears. Christie has ruined her day, her life, her future. She stammers hurt and bitter words, and he stalks off silently to his office.
It is the first Sunday in seven months he has taken off from work, and see how she has ruined it?
Grace tells this story often, as evidence of Christie’s malevolence and general impossibility, and her own fortitude, for her response to the incident was, very sensibly, to learn to drive, and to pass the test first time. And since Christie would not let her drive the Mercedes in case she damaged the gear-box, she sold herself for fifty pounds to an Armenian violinist in his bedroom in the Regents Park Hotel, in order to buy a car of her own. Or so she said.
Though Christie’s second wife Geraldine, the social worker, said very differently.
‘I know for a fact,’ she said to Chloe once, ‘that Grace only passed the test on the fourth try. As for sleeping with an Armenian for money, that is typical of one of Grace’s sick fantasies—and part of her mental illness, I’m afraid, and further evidence, if any is necessary, that she is not fit to see the children at weekends. The Regents Park Hotel! Women just don’t behave like that, and if they did, I’m sure the hotel porter doesn’t let them in. It’s a very respectable place. I’ve been there to tea. And fifty pounds! Who would pay that much for Grace? Armenians are a very shrewd race, the market price for prostitutes is three pounds, and our currency is not all that difficult to master. She is quite frigid, poor Grace, according to Christie, and that of course is part of her trouble.
‘As for that Sunday, Christie didn’t go to the office in a temper, but because he’d had a phone-call to say one of his buildings was falling down, and he was needed on site.’
This last statement certainly had the ring of truth. Christie was a civil engineer and his buildings were frequently falling down.
Chloe quite liked Geraldine, and was sorry for her, believing Grace when she said that Christie had married Geraldine, that respectable young woman, merely to gain custody of the children. And though Geraldine, at that time, possessed to a marked degree the cool and irritating smugness of the untried and childless wife, who knows that a little goodwill, a little common sense and a little self-discipline will solve all problems—be they matrimonial, social or political—Chloe knew that life and time would soon cure all that.
As indeed they did. Once the children were safely and
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