Read Online Worst Fears by Fay Weldon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Fay Weldon
Tags: General Fiction
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The burn marks ran up the side of Ned’s sleeve.
All I have here, thought Alexandra, is evidence of a woman obsessed by my husband. A plain, mad, unhappy woman. I should feel sorry for her.
Alexandra went upstairs to Jenny Linden’s tiny bedroom. A white coverlet on the unmade bed; lots of cushions and pillows tossed everywhere, black lace knickers on the floor, trimmed with crimson. Black and crimson—well, she’d worn that too in her time. Vulgar and fun. Just odd for Jenny Linden. But perhaps she lived in hope. Women did. A fossilised ammonite on the wooden mantelpiece. You could find them in the ground round here. They were excavating part of the prison to build their Penitentiary Theme Park. All kinds of things turned up in the disturbed soil. Roman pottery. Stone Age axeheads. Fossils. Presumably once sea had covered the land here: presumably Jenny Linden kept her eyes open. Finding fossils was the kind of thing that Ned approved of.
Still the quiver in the air as if the wails had just stopped. A painting of Ned on the wall: no, not a painting. A kind of montage of scraps of fabric which amounted to a portrait; very much Jenny’s style. A model of a set on the dressing table: on closer inspection a model of Ned and Alexandra’s bedroom. That was shocking. The oak table made in matches; the brass bed contrived in orange sticks and minute slivers of twisted gold paper. A doll’s house mirror where her, Alexandra’s, mirror was. How did Jenny know what her bedroom looked like? Because she’d been to a party at The Cottage in the past? Might even have come to an event or so when Alexandra had been in town? Ned sometimes asked people round? If the spare room was occupied, guests would leave their coats in the master bedroom. Or because when Ned and Alexandra were both away Jenny Linden came in and loitered, and breathed up her beloved’s breath? A fan, a true fan, a devotee, a groupie, a stupid, plain, fat middle-aged woman well beyond her sell-by date, a stalker into sympathetic magic.
Alexandra went into the bathroom and found Ned’s toothbrush in the tooth mug. That is to say it was yellow and had a blue line running through the tufts. When the blue line was no longer visible it was time to buy a new toothbrush. It was barely visible. Perhaps Abbie had thrown it out on the Sunday morning? Perhaps Jenny had then stolen it? Perhaps she welcomed this dreadful intimacy—that she should put in her own mouth what had been in Ned’s?
Alexandra took the toothbrush. She took all the photographs of Ned off the wall. She took the address book and the diary. She let out the orange cat, who stalked away calmly up the road. And she drove home to the unbearable emptiness of The Cottage. She would not have to put up with it for long. Hamish would be arriving mid-afternoon.
There were eight messages on the answerphone. One from the Mail on Sunday , another from The Times asking for help with Ned’s obituary, another from Dr. Moebius asking her to return his latest call, one weeping woman too incoherent to identify, one from the florist asking her where exactly The Cottage was, and another one, which Ned had picked up: Ned saying, “Is that you, Leah? Hang on a minute, I’ll switch off the bloody answerphone.” At least she thought he said that. She replayed it. It was an old call. The tape was on its second time around. Trying to find it again, she erased the message by accident. But she thought he’d said that. Perhaps he’d said “dear”? Soon she would be as mad as Jenny Linden.
Alexandra felt completely excluded, cut out, burned away. Ned’s image was owned by others, as was his voice: it spoke to others, not to her. Even his body, his skull, had been snatched by others. Were they sawing through it at this moment? Did bones leave sawdust behind? Did brains spill out as they did in horror stories? Diamond snuffled round her ankles. She made a fire in the grate. She burned the photographs because Ned’s
All I have here, thought Alexandra, is evidence of a woman obsessed by my husband. A plain, mad, unhappy woman. I should feel sorry for her.
Alexandra went upstairs to Jenny Linden’s tiny bedroom. A white coverlet on the unmade bed; lots of cushions and pillows tossed everywhere, black lace knickers on the floor, trimmed with crimson. Black and crimson—well, she’d worn that too in her time. Vulgar and fun. Just odd for Jenny Linden. But perhaps she lived in hope. Women did. A fossilised ammonite on the wooden mantelpiece. You could find them in the ground round here. They were excavating part of the prison to build their Penitentiary Theme Park. All kinds of things turned up in the disturbed soil. Roman pottery. Stone Age axeheads. Fossils. Presumably once sea had covered the land here: presumably Jenny Linden kept her eyes open. Finding fossils was the kind of thing that Ned approved of.
Still the quiver in the air as if the wails had just stopped. A painting of Ned on the wall: no, not a painting. A kind of montage of scraps of fabric which amounted to a portrait; very much Jenny’s style. A model of a set on the dressing table: on closer inspection a model of Ned and Alexandra’s bedroom. That was shocking. The oak table made in matches; the brass bed contrived in orange sticks and minute slivers of twisted gold paper. A doll’s house mirror where her, Alexandra’s, mirror was. How did Jenny know what her bedroom looked like? Because she’d been to a party at The Cottage in the past? Might even have come to an event or so when Alexandra had been in town? Ned sometimes asked people round? If the spare room was occupied, guests would leave their coats in the master bedroom. Or because when Ned and Alexandra were both away Jenny Linden came in and loitered, and breathed up her beloved’s breath? A fan, a true fan, a devotee, a groupie, a stupid, plain, fat middle-aged woman well beyond her sell-by date, a stalker into sympathetic magic.
Alexandra went into the bathroom and found Ned’s toothbrush in the tooth mug. That is to say it was yellow and had a blue line running through the tufts. When the blue line was no longer visible it was time to buy a new toothbrush. It was barely visible. Perhaps Abbie had thrown it out on the Sunday morning? Perhaps Jenny had then stolen it? Perhaps she welcomed this dreadful intimacy—that she should put in her own mouth what had been in Ned’s?
Alexandra took the toothbrush. She took all the photographs of Ned off the wall. She took the address book and the diary. She let out the orange cat, who stalked away calmly up the road. And she drove home to the unbearable emptiness of The Cottage. She would not have to put up with it for long. Hamish would be arriving mid-afternoon.
There were eight messages on the answerphone. One from the Mail on Sunday , another from The Times asking for help with Ned’s obituary, another from Dr. Moebius asking her to return his latest call, one weeping woman too incoherent to identify, one from the florist asking her where exactly The Cottage was, and another one, which Ned had picked up: Ned saying, “Is that you, Leah? Hang on a minute, I’ll switch off the bloody answerphone.” At least she thought he said that. She replayed it. It was an old call. The tape was on its second time around. Trying to find it again, she erased the message by accident. But she thought he’d said that. Perhaps he’d said “dear”? Soon she would be as mad as Jenny Linden.
Alexandra felt completely excluded, cut out, burned away. Ned’s image was owned by others, as was his voice: it spoke to others, not to her. Even his body, his skull, had been snatched by others. Were they sawing through it at this moment? Did bones leave sawdust behind? Did brains spill out as they did in horror stories? Diamond snuffled round her ankles. She made a fire in the grate. She burned the photographs because Ned’s
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