The Essence of the Thing (15 page)

57

‘How many Easter eggs did you get?’

‘Only the one. From my parents.’

Nicola had never stopped hoping that Jonathan might awaken from the nightmare into which he had dragged her. She had hoped—only now was this illusion in tatters—that he might appear at Susannah’s front door, Easter egg in hand: an immensely rare creation from which when it was cracked open a dove would fly, heralding resurrection.

‘
I
got three.’

‘Lucky old you.’

‘One of them was French.’

‘Luckier still.’

‘I saved some for you.’

‘Have you got it with you?’

‘No, it’s at home. We thought we might ask you round on Friday night, if you’re free.’

‘I am, as a matter of fact. Who’s
we
?’

One never knew, with Philip. He was always falling for someone new.

‘Me and Jean-Claude. Hence the French Easter egg. Fresh from Paris.’

‘Yummy.’

‘Yes, wait till you see him. Supposing he’s still around, by Friday. We might go clubbing.
Clerbing
. Do you fancy that?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Then you’d better give it a try. I’ll come and fetch you here on Friday evening, okay? And we’ll whizz away together.’

So she had something to think about after she got back to the empty house in Clapham after work on Tuesday. Clothes, for clubbing. What did one wear to such places? It was hopeless. She ate a sketchy meal and watched television, and waited for the telephone to ring, knowing that it would not: it was hopeless, hopeless. But how did one relinquish such hopes—hopeless as they might be—how could one, while one breathed?

On Wednesday evening she did all Susannah’s ironing, as well as her own. She ironed Chloe’s rabbit-printed frock and put it aside; the telephone rang.

It was Susannah.

‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’ve been ironing. What about you?’

‘We’re having fun. I wish you were here. What else are you doing?’

‘I’m going clubbing on Friday night.’

‘Never.’

‘Truly. Philip at work is taking me, with his new boyfriend Jean-Claude.’

‘Now you’re talking. Don’t let them give you any of those weird pills, I’m sure they’re dangerous.’

‘Of course not.’

‘Have some of this,’ said Philip. ‘It’s the Friday night special.’

The Friday night special was an extremely long spliff, rather badly rolled; but it did the trick.

‘I haven’t had any of this for simply ages,’ said Nicola.

‘Hmmm,’ said Philip. ‘I guess not.’

He put on some strange music and started tidying up the sitting room, in the course of which activity he found a hat which—seeing no more logical place for it—he put on Nicola’s head.

‘You can have that,’ he said. ‘It never did a thing for me.’

It was a black velvet pillbox with silver embroidery around the sides and a silver knob on the crown. In due course Jean-Claude, a young man beautiful and elegant in the standard-issue French style, emerged from the kitchen and invited them to come and have some soup. Then they had biscuits and several different kinds of cheese, and another spliff. Philip played some more strange music and told Nicola to stand up and let him have a good look at her.

‘I don’t want any trouble at the door,’ he said.

She stood still as ordered. She was wearing the denim skirt and a white shirt.

‘Hmmm,’ said Philip.

He and Jean-Claude discussed clubs, which they should and should not visit that evening, and this question having been at last decided Philip took a harder look. ‘You’re not ideologically committed to that skirt length, are you?’ he asked.

Nicola told him that she was not.

‘Then we’ll change it if you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘Now where did I put my scissors?’

She stood still while he cut three inches off the bottom of the skirt.

‘Fishnet stockings,’ he said.

He disappeared and came back with some fishnet tights and a silver leather waistcoat.

‘I think you’ll just about do,’ he said. ‘Put these on and let’s have a look. Keep the hat on.’

Nicola did as she was told.

‘Red,’ he said. ‘She needs some red.’

He went away again and after a while came back with some lipstick and nail varnish.

‘Red Devil,’ he said. ‘Guaranteed to inflame. You do the nails, Jean-Claude, your young hands are so much steadier than mine. Take off the fishnets, darling, we’ve got to do the toenails as well.’

‘But no one will see them,’ she protested.

‘Is that any reason?’ asked Philip. ‘God can see them. Take ’em off like a good girl and sit down.’

She did as she’d been told, and so did Jean-Claude.

‘
Que tu as les pieds jolis
,’ he enthused.

‘That’s enough of that,’ said Philip. ‘Just concentrate on your work.’

He put on some more music and went to make some coffee.

‘A little caffeine at this stage,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to move it along.’

He came back and painted her mouth, took the hat off and pinned her hair back behind her ears and then replaced the hat. Her nails were all painted by now and she was waiting for them to dry.

Philip brought in the coffee, with the remains of the French Easter egg and some nondescript-looking pills. ‘Take one of these,’ he said. ‘It’ll keep you on your feet.’

She could hardly refuse. She put the fishnet tights on again and drank some coffee.

‘Be careful of the
maquillage
,’ said Philip; she was.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘let’s have one last good look at you. Stand over there.’

She did so: it was wonderful, not having to think, not having to make decisions, simply taking orders; wonderful.

‘Hmmm,’ said Philip. ‘Ear-rings.’

‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘My ears aren’t pierced.’

‘
What?
’ exclaimed Philip. ‘
What
did you say? I never heard of such a thing. I could do it for you now.’

‘No,’ said Nicola; ‘please don’t.’

‘Well don’t blame me,’ said Philip, ‘if they won’t let you in.’

But they did; in the first place, and the second, and the third.

‘Okay,’ said Philip. ‘Let’s go out there and show these babies how to boogie.’

And that, as far as Nicola was concerned, was what they did. You never, but never, saw anything like it in your life. If she’d known for a moment that London was actually pot-holed by these vast fantastical spaces filled with people dancing—as if in devotion to some god—which they were, in a way: if she’d known this, then she wouldn’t be where she was today; or was it tonight; or was it in fact the next day up?

And if she’d known, and not, therefore, been here, today, tonight, tomorrow, or whatever it was, well then—what? And Jean-Claude: he was just—
tu vois
—entirely perfect: when she lost her hat, once,
he found it again
. In among all these people—hundreds of them, all dancing—he found her hat. Just cop that.

58

They emerged into the pastel pre-dawn light, the streets of the West End around them almost empty, freshly washed, clean and innocent. The air was full of birdsong.

‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ said Nicola in wonder. ‘It’s so
beautiful
.’

The street lamps were still alight, golden spangles in the pellucid haze.

‘If we take a stroll down through the park,’ said Philip, ‘we should hit Westminster Bridge just about sunrise time: how about that? We’ll do like Wordsworth.’

They leaned on the balustrade, looking downriver, and waited for the miracle. Big Ben struck the half-hour, and a few minutes later it arrived. They all saw that they were fortunate beyond all reckoning and were silent. Quite soon the sun was well up, and the din of traffic increased; a launch passed noisily under the bridge: the morning began to slide into banality. Nicola turning her head saw a taxi approaching from the Lambeth end of the bridge.

‘I think I might go for that,’ she told them. ‘Thank you. For everything. With all my heart.’

Kisses were exchanged; Philip hailed the cab and they all crossed the road.

‘Will you be all right?’ he said.

She got in and smiled at them through the window. ‘Absolutely,’ she said; she waved a last farewell as the taxi did a U-turn.

It was almost precisely a fortnight since she’d last sat in the back of a taxi crossing the river southwards: and this time she was not trying not to cry: this time, she was actually smiling. She was astonished by this. She was smiling: underneath, at the bottom of her heart, a perpetual flame of anguish still burned; but at a more immediate level of sensation she was feeling what she would have thought impossible: happiness.

There was so much music still going on inside her head that she thought she would just sit down here in the sitting room for a while and listen to some more. Of course Geoffrey and Susannah hadn’t any of the kind she’d been dancing to but she looked through their collection and chose something which she thought might be complementary at any rate, and she put it on and went into the kitchen and made some tea. Then she sat on the sofa, and thought about the night which had just gone by, and the miraculous morning, and listened to the music, and marvelled at this sensation of happiness which still enveloped her: until suddenly, just like that, feeling ever so tired, suddenly, she lay down, just for a minute; and fell fast asleep.

Some time later she was awakened, by a ringing—was it the telephone? She started up: there was silence, and then the bell sounded once more: the front door. Oh dear. It could be the milkman: the account was settled on Saturdays—she’d been warned; she’d promised to see to it. Her hat had fallen on the floor; she picked it up and put it on again; this seemed at the moment the reasonable thing to do. Pulling her extremely short skirt straight, she went to the door, and opened it.

‘Hello, Nicola.’

‘Oh!’

‘I thought I ought to bring you these.’

Jonathan: Jonathan, of whom she had despaired. Jonathan, with her mail.

‘That was very good of you. Will you come in?’

Jonathan, here, now.

‘Well, just for a moment.’

Nicola led the way into the sitting room. They both stood there awkwardly and she gestured at the sofa. ‘Won’t you sit down?’

He sat down very gingerly and looked around, not with Sam’s frankly inquisitive stare but with a sort of trepidation, as if he expected the faces of gnomes and elves suddenly to appear, grinning spitefully.

‘Are you alone?’ he asked.

‘Yes. They’re all away on holiday still. They’re coming back this afternoon some time.’ She didn’t know what to say, what to do. ‘I was going to make some tea,’ she improvised. ‘Will you have some?’

‘No,’ he said; ‘thank you all the same. But do go ahead.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘It can wait.’

Although she had slept for only a few hours, she felt a strange clarity. She saw what was bothering him just before he spoke.

‘Have you been at a party?’ he said.

‘No. Dancing. I didn’t get back until a short time ago—I haven’t actually been to bed yet. We were clubbing.’

‘Oh.’

‘I went with Philip, from work. And a friend of his.’

‘Oh, yes.’

He knew what sort of friend
that
was. She saw that he didn’t want to know what she had been doing; the question had been a formality. He didn’t want to hear the answer.

He wondered now what he was doing here: and so did she.

‘You really needn’t have brought the mail,’ she said, rather stiffly. ‘You could have re-addressed it.’

‘I thought you might need it straightaway,’ he said. ‘I think they send re-addressed letters second class.’

‘Well, thank you,’ she said, listlessly looking through the bunch. ‘I’ll do something about a proper redirection next week.’

There was a letter from Scunthorpe.

‘I could have brought your other things too,’ he went on. ‘But I wasn’t sure whether you wanted them yet.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘I’ll collect them myself in a week or two. I’ve found a couple of rooms to rent, near here. Friends of Susannah and Geoffrey.’

‘Oh, good,’ he said.

He didn’t want to know: she could see that he had hardly taken in what she had said. She was hard against the great blank wall of his indifference.

‘Well—’ she said. ‘If that’s all—?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I only came to bring the mail.’ He hesitated for a moment and then got up. Then he seemed to think of something more to say after all. ‘You’re not still feeling resentful about what’s happened, I hope,’ he said. ‘I never intended any enmity towards you and I would have hoped that you’d feel none towards me. I don’t know whether we can be friends but I never wished or expected that we’d become enemies.’

She was, properly, astounded: but her mind still felt as clear as ice. ‘You must be living in a dream world,’ she said. ‘Words like friends, enemies, enmity, resentment, don’t begin to apply in the real world where I’ve been, the last few weeks. But I don’t suppose there’s any use in our trying to talk about this, in the circumstances.’

Some trace of a genuine emotion seemed to have gripped him. ‘I can’t seem to make you realise that I’ve done what was right not only for me but for you too,’ he said. He wasn’t indifferent any longer. ‘It seems never to have occurred to you, that entering into a permanent relationship, e.g. marriage, e.g. parenthood, is probably more dangerous than walking across a minefield. And the possible suffering is more prolonged, and affects everyone near you. When it isn’t absolutely right it’s absolutely wrong. And
when
it’s
absolutely wrong
you’ve got your back against the wall for the rest of your life. Did you really want to risk that?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I loved you. That’s what it means, to love someone: to be willing to take that risk.’

‘Then love is only a kind of insanity,’ he said.

‘So be it,’ she replied. ‘You see, it’s not a case now of resentment, or enmity, or etcetera, it’s a case of mutual incomprehension. There’s too large an accumulation of doubt and fear which you might have talked about at the time when it first came into your mind but which you simply harboured in secret. I suppose it’s been sitting there for months earning compound interest and now it’s too large to see beyond. It’s all there is.’ She paused. ‘It’s over,’ she said.

She hadn’t quite known all these things before saying them, but as she had done so she saw that they were true, as far as they went. Jonathan’s silence had been a kind of infidelity and her misapprehension of his state of mind had been a kind of hubris and now they were both alone. He had continued to stand, as had she; he was leaning now against Susannah’s mantelpiece, looking down at the objects on it as if puzzled by them—as he might in fact have been: some large ivory chess pieces, a bronze candlestick, a small vase of dying flowers and a painting, propped against the mirror, of Guy’s.

He was silent for a moment; he seemed to be thinking about what she’d said. But when he spoke, it was from behind the wall of indifference once more. ‘As you say,’ he said. ‘It’s over; yes.’ He straightened up. ‘It’s time I was going,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in touch soon about the sale—sorry I haven’t been quicker off the mark there but I’ve been terribly tied up at work, there’s hardly been a moment. I’ll get it sorted out this week, that’s a promise.’

‘You can call me at work,’ she said.

‘Yes, right, I will,’ he replied.

He followed her from the room and into the hallway; she opened the front door and he crossed the threshold, and then half turned back.

‘Goodbye then,’ he said.

‘Goodbye.’

She shut the door and went back into the sitting room and sat hunched over on the sofa, nursing the new and horrific pain which now had possession of her. All the happiness she had felt had fled.
It’s over
. She had said it, she herself. It was true.