Read Online On Green Dolphin Street by Sebastian Faulks - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sebastian Faulks
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cardigan; she looked girlish for a woman of forty, and the tidiness of her figure, which had not swelled or slackened after the birth of the children, emphasized this youthfulness. He went over and put his arms round her as she stood by the cooker, enfolding her in his tight embrace.
“You’re as corny as Kansas in August, aren’t you?” he quoted from the song. He kissed her neck beneath the waves of dark hair and ran his hands up to her breasts. She wriggled in his arms, pretending to be impatient.
“Pity I haven’t found me a wonderful guy.”
“I can see a gray hair,” he said. “Is that your first?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Pour me a drink.”
Back in his seat at the table, Charlie said, “I had a talk with Duncan Trench today.”
“Lucky you. What did he say?”
Charlie looked up again at his wife’s back. His affairs had reached a state of such emergency that he was no longer able to confide wholly in Mary. Yet the urge to tell was great, and he thought he might relieve it by revealing a controlled amount, a sample.
“I’ve had some difficulties and he thought he might be able to help.”
“But he’s not in your department, is he?”
“Well, yes and no. He’s in Chancery. It was all a bit vague.”
Charlie had, over the years, become adept at being not quite truthful with Mary. In the beginning it had mostly had to do with other women. The strategy of strongly denying any feeling for any woman to whom he was attracted was a failure; Mary could tell in an instant that he was lying. They had developed instead a process of bluff and double-bluff by which he was able to confess to degrees of mild personal interest, superficial carnal excitement and occasionally to a grand passion, though the people for whom these feelings were professed were never the ones for whom they were felt.
It had worked well, and Charlie superstitiously provoked Mary into reciprocal confessions, though her fascination with the TV repairman and proclaimed passion for the delivery boy were never convincing. Charlie felt it was enough to keep canvassing the idea and that this would act as a lightning conductor in the event of her actually meeting someone: there would be a way of talking about it, exaggerating and making fun of it. The truth was, in his view, that Mary was constitutionally faithful and that her emotional life was too heavily identified with his and their children’s welfare for anything else to be conceivable; even to kiss another man would be like an act of cruelty to Richard and Louisa.
Mary put down a casserole of chicken à la king on the table. “It’s nothing sinister, is it?” she said. “I mean, you’re not doing anything … unusual.”
“No, no. People like me aren’t allowed to,” said Charlie, pouring another scotch. “Anyway. What about you?”
“I had lunch with Frank in this restaurant Lauren recommended.”
“Oh yes. What was it like?”
“Very Lauren. Regular. Neat. Quite nice.”
She said “quite nice” in a way that Louisa had first used at the age of two; it had a world-weary, tolerant singsong that had greatly amused Charlie. He had a keen memory for the linguistic oddities and failures of the children, some of which he had sardonically adopted as his own standard usage.
“What did you talk about?”
“You, mostly,” said Mary.
“You must have been desperate. Did you drink wine?”
“No, I just had water.”
“And I suppose he had chili con carne with milky coffee, did he?” Charlie shuddered.
“No. He had a drink. I forget what. Beer, I think.”
Charlie began to talk about American drinking habits, which still intrigued him. The telephone rang twice before the end of dinner: the first time was Frank Renzo to say he was free after all if the invitation to go sailing was still good; the second was Katy Renshaw, who said they planned to spend Saturday night in their country cabin after sailing, so would the van der Lindens please bring warm
“You’re as corny as Kansas in August, aren’t you?” he quoted from the song. He kissed her neck beneath the waves of dark hair and ran his hands up to her breasts. She wriggled in his arms, pretending to be impatient.
“Pity I haven’t found me a wonderful guy.”
“I can see a gray hair,” he said. “Is that your first?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Pour me a drink.”
Back in his seat at the table, Charlie said, “I had a talk with Duncan Trench today.”
“Lucky you. What did he say?”
Charlie looked up again at his wife’s back. His affairs had reached a state of such emergency that he was no longer able to confide wholly in Mary. Yet the urge to tell was great, and he thought he might relieve it by revealing a controlled amount, a sample.
“I’ve had some difficulties and he thought he might be able to help.”
“But he’s not in your department, is he?”
“Well, yes and no. He’s in Chancery. It was all a bit vague.”
Charlie had, over the years, become adept at being not quite truthful with Mary. In the beginning it had mostly had to do with other women. The strategy of strongly denying any feeling for any woman to whom he was attracted was a failure; Mary could tell in an instant that he was lying. They had developed instead a process of bluff and double-bluff by which he was able to confess to degrees of mild personal interest, superficial carnal excitement and occasionally to a grand passion, though the people for whom these feelings were professed were never the ones for whom they were felt.
It had worked well, and Charlie superstitiously provoked Mary into reciprocal confessions, though her fascination with the TV repairman and proclaimed passion for the delivery boy were never convincing. Charlie felt it was enough to keep canvassing the idea and that this would act as a lightning conductor in the event of her actually meeting someone: there would be a way of talking about it, exaggerating and making fun of it. The truth was, in his view, that Mary was constitutionally faithful and that her emotional life was too heavily identified with his and their children’s welfare for anything else to be conceivable; even to kiss another man would be like an act of cruelty to Richard and Louisa.
Mary put down a casserole of chicken à la king on the table. “It’s nothing sinister, is it?” she said. “I mean, you’re not doing anything … unusual.”
“No, no. People like me aren’t allowed to,” said Charlie, pouring another scotch. “Anyway. What about you?”
“I had lunch with Frank in this restaurant Lauren recommended.”
“Oh yes. What was it like?”
“Very Lauren. Regular. Neat. Quite nice.”
She said “quite nice” in a way that Louisa had first used at the age of two; it had a world-weary, tolerant singsong that had greatly amused Charlie. He had a keen memory for the linguistic oddities and failures of the children, some of which he had sardonically adopted as his own standard usage.
“What did you talk about?”
“You, mostly,” said Mary.
“You must have been desperate. Did you drink wine?”
“No, I just had water.”
“And I suppose he had chili con carne with milky coffee, did he?” Charlie shuddered.
“No. He had a drink. I forget what. Beer, I think.”
Charlie began to talk about American drinking habits, which still intrigued him. The telephone rang twice before the end of dinner: the first time was Frank Renzo to say he was free after all if the invitation to go sailing was still good; the second was Katy Renshaw, who said they planned to spend Saturday night in their country cabin after sailing, so would the van der Lindens please bring warm
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