married, and it was him she’d marry. In a way it was as if they were engaged, betrothed since childhood, the way some of those Asian people were. These days a girl wanted to prove herself, show she could be as self-reliant as a man, before doing what all women do, settling down with a man. He even said as much one Saturday when, after lunch, he went back to the new flat with Leonora.
The stairs they had to climb were incredible. He wouldn’t have believed so many London flats were without lifts. Rachel was there in one of her typical designer outfits of ancient skirt from a Monsoon sale (probably the first-ever Monsoon sale) and grey Oxfam jumper. He looked at their house-plants and their posters, their Reject Shop crockery and the sofa they’d bought off a pavement in the Shepherds Bush Road, and after a while he’d made that remark about women proving themselves.
“You’re a Victorian, you know, Guy,” said Rachel. “The last one. You ought to be in a museum. The Natural History Museum, d’you think, Leonora? Or the V and A?”
“No, you’ve got me wrong,” he said, trying to keep his temper, catching sight in a fly-spotted mirror of his young handsome face, his thin athletic figure—a Victorian! “You’ve misunderstood. I believe women are equal to men. I know women need to have careers and their own money and a job to go back to after they’re married. I know what women want.”
They screamed with laughter. They clutched each other. Rachel said something about Freud. He still didn’t know what he’d said that was wrong or funny. After a while it didn’t bother him much because it was Rachel who’d made the remark, not Leonora. And he laughed at Leonora over Saturday lunch when she reproved him for saying Rachel’s trouble was sour grapes.
He was passing through a long phase of knowing she’d come round to marrying him one day. The possibility of her meeting someone else never really occurred to him. Or rather, with a chill like the first frost on the air of autumn, the possibility would occur and he would phone her to reassure himself. Not to explain his feelings, for they were only feelings, never as strong as suspicions, but to listen to her voice and attempt to detect in it some change. And on Saturday he would watch her and listen to the inflexions of her voice, on the watch for some subtle alteration. She was always the same, wasn’t she?
She talked as she always did about the old times, about their youth, and then about her family and her girl-friends, what they’d been doing and saying. None of it interested him, but he liked to hear her talk. It was funny really what she’d said about this William Newton’s conversation when she hadn’t really much conversation herself. There was never a word from her about TV or music or the latest West End hit or fashion or sport. He tried to imagine the content of this fabulous conversation she had with Newton, but imagination failed him.
It was now a week since he had seen her with Newton. He was on the other side of Kensington High Street, crowded traffic-laden Kensington High Street, walking in the direction of Church Street, and they had been on the other side hand in hand. His Leonora and a skinny red-haired fellow, not much taller than she was.
Hand in hand. He had felt a rush of blood to his head, felt his face grow red as if he were embarrassed, as if he were ashamed. Passionately, he hadn’t wanted them to see him, and they hadn’t. Afterwards, having a drink at home, he had thought of it as one of the worst shocks of his life, comparable to the one he had received on the day when that woman came to his house and told him about Con Mulvanney.
“You aren’t looking too good,” said Danilo.
“I’m perfectly okay.”
For a moment Guy felt affronted. In his new Ungaro jacket and thin Perry Ellis sweater he had been pleased with his appearance. It wasn’t his habit to spend much time in front of the mirror, a quick glance was
The stairs they had to climb were incredible. He wouldn’t have believed so many London flats were without lifts. Rachel was there in one of her typical designer outfits of ancient skirt from a Monsoon sale (probably the first-ever Monsoon sale) and grey Oxfam jumper. He looked at their house-plants and their posters, their Reject Shop crockery and the sofa they’d bought off a pavement in the Shepherds Bush Road, and after a while he’d made that remark about women proving themselves.
“You’re a Victorian, you know, Guy,” said Rachel. “The last one. You ought to be in a museum. The Natural History Museum, d’you think, Leonora? Or the V and A?”
“No, you’ve got me wrong,” he said, trying to keep his temper, catching sight in a fly-spotted mirror of his young handsome face, his thin athletic figure—a Victorian! “You’ve misunderstood. I believe women are equal to men. I know women need to have careers and their own money and a job to go back to after they’re married. I know what women want.”
They screamed with laughter. They clutched each other. Rachel said something about Freud. He still didn’t know what he’d said that was wrong or funny. After a while it didn’t bother him much because it was Rachel who’d made the remark, not Leonora. And he laughed at Leonora over Saturday lunch when she reproved him for saying Rachel’s trouble was sour grapes.
He was passing through a long phase of knowing she’d come round to marrying him one day. The possibility of her meeting someone else never really occurred to him. Or rather, with a chill like the first frost on the air of autumn, the possibility would occur and he would phone her to reassure himself. Not to explain his feelings, for they were only feelings, never as strong as suspicions, but to listen to her voice and attempt to detect in it some change. And on Saturday he would watch her and listen to the inflexions of her voice, on the watch for some subtle alteration. She was always the same, wasn’t she?
She talked as she always did about the old times, about their youth, and then about her family and her girl-friends, what they’d been doing and saying. None of it interested him, but he liked to hear her talk. It was funny really what she’d said about this William Newton’s conversation when she hadn’t really much conversation herself. There was never a word from her about TV or music or the latest West End hit or fashion or sport. He tried to imagine the content of this fabulous conversation she had with Newton, but imagination failed him.
It was now a week since he had seen her with Newton. He was on the other side of Kensington High Street, crowded traffic-laden Kensington High Street, walking in the direction of Church Street, and they had been on the other side hand in hand. His Leonora and a skinny red-haired fellow, not much taller than she was.
Hand in hand. He had felt a rush of blood to his head, felt his face grow red as if he were embarrassed, as if he were ashamed. Passionately, he hadn’t wanted them to see him, and they hadn’t. Afterwards, having a drink at home, he had thought of it as one of the worst shocks of his life, comparable to the one he had received on the day when that woman came to his house and told him about Con Mulvanney.
“You aren’t looking too good,” said Danilo.
“I’m perfectly okay.”
For a moment Guy felt affronted. In his new Ungaro jacket and thin Perry Ellis sweater he had been pleased with his appearance. It wasn’t his habit to spend much time in front of the mirror, a quick glance was
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