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Authors: Susan Howatch
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the front door I scuttled down the stairs. Outside in the porch I took great lungfuls of fetid air spiked with diesel fumes as I fought to recover my shattered confidence, but when he rejoined me I was still in turmoil.
“Sorry if I upset you back there,” I heard him say as he slipped the keys into the pocket of my jacket. “Richard wouldn’t have liked that, would he? He’d have wanted me to treat you right, and that’s what I aim to do in future because I think you’re terrific. I’d really like us to be friends.”
All I wanted now was to get away from him so I merely nodded, but at once he added: “I’m really grateful for your help—and now please let me give you a ride home. That’s the least I can do in the circumstances.”
I lost my nerve again. The suave good manners coating the raw sexuality hit me like a bunch of red-hot pokers slamming through loose-packed snow, and in panic I said the first thing that came into my head. “Oh, you don’t want to trail back to the City!” I exclaimed, but as soon as the words left my mouth I knew I’d made a very big mistake.
“So you live in the City, do you?” he said quickly, and I could almost hear him thinking: I’ll look her up on the electoral roll.
“I’ll get a cab, no problem, don’t worry,” I said in a rush, and he shrugged, willing enough to let me go now that he had an easy way of uncovering my address.
“Seeya!” he said buoyantly as we parted, but I could only slump back on the seat as the cab pulled away from the curb.
IV
The house on Wallside was in darkness, a fact which startled me because Eric had promised to have supper waiting. Grabbing the phone I dialled his studio.
“So where are you?” I said aggrieved when he picked up the receiver. “Where’s dinner?”
“Oh, my God! I’ll be with you in five minutes.”
Storming to the kitchen I flung some scotch into a glass and began to make myself a low-calorie, vegetarian-cheese sandwich on wholemeal bread. Then I saw the bread was mouldy. With a curse I binned it, swilled some scotch and winkled a couple of biscuits from the packet of Tuc in the store-cupboard.
When Eric arrived I realised he was still mentally and emotionally in his studio where he was reworking a difficult segment of his new novel. “I’ve got Marks and Spencer’s fish pie,” he was saying from far away in 1940 where he was living with his characters in Norway during the Second World War. “It won’t take a moment to nuke it in the microwave.”
“But you were going to get that low-cal chicken and broccoli dish!”
“Was I?”
“Oh, spare me the Alzheimer’s routine!”
“Darling, is something wrong?”
“He finally noticed,” I said to an imaginary audience.
“I’m sorry I lost track of the time, but the commandos were delayed and my hero was almost garotted—”
“Eric, that’s fiction—
fiction
—and my problems are for real! I’m totally stressed out after messing around with a tart, and—”
“I’ve always said you were too obsessed with dieting! If you ate sensibly—”
“Not that kind of tart, you fruity-loop! A tart, a tom, a hooker, a hustler, A PROSTITUTE!”
“Blimey, what were you doing with one of those?”
“Well, I haven’t mentioned it before because it was confidential, but—no, forget it. Listen, I’m cross, I’m starving, I’m—”
“I’ll take you out. Let’s go to Fish Heaven.”
“I don’t want fish and chips! Let’s go to Searcy’s!”
“I can’t afford Searcy’s.”
“I’ll pay.”
Silence. Suddenly all the humour drained out of the conversation and an invisible curtain dropped noiselessly between us. We were two years into our relationship but the money problem had never been solved, even though we often pretended that it had. I always told myself that this problem was the reason why we weren’t married; I was too afraid that if Eric was unable to share my money with good grace before we were married he would be
“Sorry if I upset you back there,” I heard him say as he slipped the keys into the pocket of my jacket. “Richard wouldn’t have liked that, would he? He’d have wanted me to treat you right, and that’s what I aim to do in future because I think you’re terrific. I’d really like us to be friends.”
All I wanted now was to get away from him so I merely nodded, but at once he added: “I’m really grateful for your help—and now please let me give you a ride home. That’s the least I can do in the circumstances.”
I lost my nerve again. The suave good manners coating the raw sexuality hit me like a bunch of red-hot pokers slamming through loose-packed snow, and in panic I said the first thing that came into my head. “Oh, you don’t want to trail back to the City!” I exclaimed, but as soon as the words left my mouth I knew I’d made a very big mistake.
“So you live in the City, do you?” he said quickly, and I could almost hear him thinking: I’ll look her up on the electoral roll.
“I’ll get a cab, no problem, don’t worry,” I said in a rush, and he shrugged, willing enough to let me go now that he had an easy way of uncovering my address.
“Seeya!” he said buoyantly as we parted, but I could only slump back on the seat as the cab pulled away from the curb.
IV
The house on Wallside was in darkness, a fact which startled me because Eric had promised to have supper waiting. Grabbing the phone I dialled his studio.
“So where are you?” I said aggrieved when he picked up the receiver. “Where’s dinner?”
“Oh, my God! I’ll be with you in five minutes.”
Storming to the kitchen I flung some scotch into a glass and began to make myself a low-calorie, vegetarian-cheese sandwich on wholemeal bread. Then I saw the bread was mouldy. With a curse I binned it, swilled some scotch and winkled a couple of biscuits from the packet of Tuc in the store-cupboard.
When Eric arrived I realised he was still mentally and emotionally in his studio where he was reworking a difficult segment of his new novel. “I’ve got Marks and Spencer’s fish pie,” he was saying from far away in 1940 where he was living with his characters in Norway during the Second World War. “It won’t take a moment to nuke it in the microwave.”
“But you were going to get that low-cal chicken and broccoli dish!”
“Was I?”
“Oh, spare me the Alzheimer’s routine!”
“Darling, is something wrong?”
“He finally noticed,” I said to an imaginary audience.
“I’m sorry I lost track of the time, but the commandos were delayed and my hero was almost garotted—”
“Eric, that’s fiction—
fiction
—and my problems are for real! I’m totally stressed out after messing around with a tart, and—”
“I’ve always said you were too obsessed with dieting! If you ate sensibly—”
“Not that kind of tart, you fruity-loop! A tart, a tom, a hooker, a hustler, A PROSTITUTE!”
“Blimey, what were you doing with one of those?”
“Well, I haven’t mentioned it before because it was confidential, but—no, forget it. Listen, I’m cross, I’m starving, I’m—”
“I’ll take you out. Let’s go to Fish Heaven.”
“I don’t want fish and chips! Let’s go to Searcy’s!”
“I can’t afford Searcy’s.”
“I’ll pay.”
Silence. Suddenly all the humour drained out of the conversation and an invisible curtain dropped noiselessly between us. We were two years into our relationship but the money problem had never been solved, even though we often pretended that it had. I always told myself that this problem was the reason why we weren’t married; I was too afraid that if Eric was unable to share my money with good grace before we were married he would be
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