A Pure Clear Light (6 page)
‘Yes, yes, I remember clearly.’
‘Oh. Ah. Ha! Yes—well look—’
‘How are you?’
‘Oh, I’m well, thank you, and you?’
‘I’m fine. Nice of you to call.’
‘Oh—well—yes; look—I mean, come to think of it, I’ve probably chosen a completely stupid time, I dare say you’re doing something else—the fact is, I just wondered if you might feel like going to see a film with me tonight—there’s something good on at that Whiteley’s cinema, so I just thought—but as I say, you’re probably on your way somewhere else already, no matter, some other time perhaps—’ No. No other time. This is it.
‘No, I’m not. I’d love to. Where shall I meet you, outside the cinema?’
So it was just as simple as that. There was nothing to it, nothing. Ask and it shall be given. And so Simon began falling into the abyss, in all its black, fathomless depth.
‘Which one do you like the best?’
‘I like them both the same.’
‘Yes but which one do you really,
really
like,
really
?’
‘I don’t like either of them, really,
really.
’
‘You
do.
’
‘I do
not.
’
‘I
know
you do.’
‘I like them the same,’ Thomas piped up, ‘because they
are
the same. They’re
exactly
the same. That’s because they’re twins.’
‘Yes of course they’re
twins
,’ said Nell, impatient at his intervention, ‘that’s the whole point. I only want to know which one she
likes.
’
‘I don’t
like
either of them,’ said Janey.
‘Ho, ho, ho,’ said Nell. ‘Pull the other one, it’s got bells on.’
Flora was listening to all this through the kitchen window. ‘Nell!’ she called. ‘Could you come here a moment? I need you.’ Nell came inside. ‘Do leave poor Janey alone,’ said Flora.
‘Why?’
‘Because I ask you to.’
‘No, but why?’
‘You’ll understand one day.’
‘You’re always saying that.’
‘It’s true.’
‘When will I understand?’
‘When you’re a little bit older.’
‘I want to understand
now.
’
‘The sentiment does you credit. But you’ll just have to wait, I’m afraid.’
‘I only asked which one she liked.’
‘Which one what?’
‘Which twin.’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘So that I can tease her.’
‘Why should you want to tease her?’
‘It’s fun.’
‘It’s naughty.’
Nell was silent, and looked at the floor. ‘It isn’t
fair
,’ she said.
‘What isn’t?’
‘Being the younger. Nothing
ever
happens to me. It isn’t
fair.
’
‘Oh, poor little Nell. Come here.’ Flora put her arms around Nell and cuddled her. ‘Poor little Nell,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to make something happen to Nell, won’t we? Would you like something nice, or something nasty?’
‘Something nice,’ muttered Nell.
‘Well,’ said Flora, ‘I’ll see what I can do. Are you sure you don’t want something nasty?’
‘Yes,’ said Nell.
‘Sometimes you can’t have the one without the other, you see,’ said Flora. ‘Sometimes in that case it’s better to have neither.’ This gave Nell something to think about, so she was silent.
‘In the meantime,’ said Flora, ‘what shall we do tomorrow?’ They talked about the possibilities, one or two of which included the Hunters and another which didn’t, and Nell generally cheered up and stopped feeling sorry for herself. ‘In a few years,’ said Flora, ‘such a lot of things will begin to happen to you, I promise.’
‘But what will I do until then?’ wailed Nell.
‘You could try and read more,’ said Flora. ‘For a start. And perhaps, when we get back to London, you might like to start going to a dancing class.’ She said this off the top of her head.
‘Oh, can I?’ said Nell eagerly.
‘Of course, if you like,’ said Flora.
‘Can I go to ballet?’ said Nell.
‘Yes, I should think so,’ said Flora.
‘Oh, that’s
pukkah
,’ said Nell.
‘But you needn’t tell the others yet,’ said Flora. ‘It can be our secret, until it’s all fixed up.’
‘Okay!’ said Nell.
‘But no more teasing,’ said Flora. ‘Okay?’
‘Okay.’
So after this she left poor Janey alone; but it was difficult. Indeed, it was difficult.
‘Did you like that?’
‘It wasn’t bad.’
‘Shall we have something to eat now? Do you feel like a Chinese? There’s a good one here somewhere, isn’t there?’
‘You must let me pay.’
‘I won’t hear of it.’
‘Then I won’t come with you.’
‘We’ll go halves then.’
‘Like the adults we are. Good.’
When they were eating he said, do you always refuse to be paid for? and she said yes, generally speaking.
‘In any relationship,’ she said, ‘autonomy is a primary good.’
‘Oh,’ said Simon.
‘And it has to begin with financial autonomy,’ she said. ‘Even when it doesn’t end there.’
‘I see,’ said Simon.
‘Good,’ she said.
She asked about his work; he said nothing about his
Grande
Illusion.
‘I’m just a hack,’ he said.
‘Like me,’ she replied.
Simon leaned back. ‘How did you come to choose accountancy?’ he said.
She was picking up a fritter: she was the sort of person who’s very good with chopsticks. She was wearing another of those simple, costly outfits: a skirt and jersey; you had to have an eye for these things before you so much as noticed. You see (they said) I don’t have to try; I wouldn’t even dream of it.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I intended originally to go to the bar. I actually read law, but then, I thought well, sod it; it will be
years
before I’m earning enough to feed a cat. Autonomy again, you see.’
‘Yes, I see,’ said Simon.
‘Of course, I probably won’t stay forever in the private sector,’ she went on. ‘My plan was to earn enough to buy a decent house and perhaps a few shares, and then go into the SFO. Or the NAO. Or something of the kind. You know.’
‘Yes, I see.’
‘The idea of hunting down City scoundrels appeals to me greatly,’ she said. ‘Down these mean streets, etcetera. Or should that be
labyrinths
? Even better. But the money’s absolutely pathetic, you see.’
‘Will you really be able to give it up when the time comes?’
She looked at him, astonished. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘As soon as I’ve got the house and the shares. That’s my autonomy insurance, you see. Not a
lot
of shares. Not a
huge
house.’
‘I see,’ said Simon, again. He was almost mute with amazement. Here it was, the new woman: autonomous.
‘I don’t,’ she said, deftly picking up a last mouthful from her plate, ‘care about money
as such.
’
‘Ah,’ said Simon.
‘I mean, do you?’
‘I never thought. That is—having none—to speak of—the question hasn’t arisen.’
‘Need a question arise, in that sense, before one thinks about it?’
‘No-o-o, no of course not.’
‘Well then?’
‘I suppose, if I cared about money, I’d be in a different game, wouldn’t I?’
‘Yes, I dare say so.’ She looked away; the subject was exhausted. He felt that he had failed in some way. ‘I’ve spent a lot of time alone,’ she suddenly said—as it were, in explanation of what had gone before. Simon was jolted back from the sense of failure, of unease, to which their exchange had brought him: he looked, slightly puzzled, at her face. Her brown eyes looked out at him from its pale, almost unremarkable—almost plain—oval: nearly expressionless: almost completely candid, like those of an animal or a small child. ‘I’ve thought about lots of questions,’ she said. ‘I always assume other people have too.’
‘My wife’s like that,’ Simon said, without thinking; and then he did think, and was appalled. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘There’s nothing to apologise for. There it is.’
There was a silence: not—surprisingly—uncomfortable, but deep. It was to be endured. It was part of the deal. Simon had not truly understood, until this moment, until this realisation, that there was a deal. It was he who spoke first. ‘Let’s go for a bit of a walk,’ he suggested, ‘shall we?’
She smiled at him, and began to rise. ‘Excuse me a moment,’ she said.
Simon signalled for the bill, and when it came punctiliously counted out his half share and half the tip, while he waited for her return. Flora and the children had been mentioned and briefly discussed, in Gillian’s presence, in Camden Town. She knew as much as she ought, as she could wish: that subject was now and forever dealt with. It was the flag which waved, bravely, just beyond the edge of the abyss. No matter how far he might fall, he would never lose sight of it; neither would she; there it was.
Their walk brought them naturally, in due course, to her front door. ‘Will you come in?’ she said. He simply nodded, and followed her into the building.
Luxury, of the bathetic kind. She turned her head and grinned at him. ‘Nice here, isn’t it?’ she said. They ascended several floors in a very opulent lift and then walked the length of a corridor, and she unlocked a heavy mahogany door. ‘Here we are, then,’ she said. ‘Come in.’
She led him into a vast almost empty sitting room—a standard lamp was alight, and a blue chinchilla cat sat on a sofa in its glow. The curtains had not been drawn; the windows looked across the street at another mansion block opposite. She caught sight of his face. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry—I should have warned you.
Too
awful, isn’t it?’ She laughed. ‘Sit down, anyway, and I’ll get you something to drink.’
‘No, really, nothing to drink,’ said Simon.
‘Or would you like some tea?’
‘Tea would be terrific.’
Simon was still staring around the room. How could such a place be her home? It contained nothing but two very large leather and chrome sofas, with some matching armchairs, and a Shiraz rug; and there was a large pedestal desk by the windows with an old office chair drawn up to it. Gillian sat down next to the cat, who had not moved, and waved at the other end of the sofa. ‘Do sit down,’ she said, beginning to laugh again. ‘Oh my dear, if you could see your face! I’ll get the tea in a moment—just let me explain—’ but she continued to laugh, and Simon joined her. ‘You see,’ she said, ‘well—it’s a long story, but this flat was actually Albie’s idea.’
Oh God. ‘Albie?’
‘Albert J. Short
the Second.
An American broker with whom I lately cohabited. He went back to the US eighteen months ago, never to return. I just haven’t had time to turn this place in for something else. Well, there’s not really much point, until I’m ready to turn it in for
the
place. That little grey home in the west that I was telling you about. So in the meantime—but at least I got rid of most of the Albie f and f. He had a strange penchant for Harrods furniture department, had Albie. Well, Harrods everything, actually. Dear Albie.’
‘Tell me about him.’
‘He jogged. That was why he insisted on buying this particular flat. So close to the park. Straight up the street, and you’re off. And then there was the baseball game on Sunday. So you see—anyway.’
‘And?’
‘Oh, we were just a couple of crazy kids.’
‘You were?’
‘Pretty much. Well, I was a bit of a drip before I met Albie. Little Miss Muffet with a nice tidy game-plan. Albie taught me to dance, as it were.’
‘Good for Albie.’
‘Right.’
‘But?’
‘Oh, it came to a natural end. No, really. No tears, no recriminations. We still fax each other once in a while. He’s just got married, actually. I was invited to the wedding.’
‘Did you go?’
‘I would have, but it was just too awkward to get away at the time. As it was, I sent a present that I knew Albie would simply
love.
’
‘This is a bit disconcerting.’
‘Is it? Let’s have that tea then.’ She left the room, and Simon sat on the leather sofa, thinking about Albert J. Short the Second, who had taught her to dance.
‘And this cat,’ he said, when she returned with the tea, ‘was that Albie’s choice too?’
‘How did you guess?’ she said. ‘I don’t even like cats! But Albie had to go to New York for a week, just after we moved in. On the Saturday morning after he left, Harrods—who else—telephoned to make sure there was someone here: they said they had a special delivery for Miss Selkirk. I was expecting something spectacular in the way of cut flowers, but half an hour later, this turned up. In the form of a kitten, you understand. In a
de luxe
cat basket, accompanied by a week’s supply of cat food and the rest of the paraphernalia. And his pedigree. So that I wouldn’t be lonely, you see.’
‘I hate to say this,’ said Simon, ‘but that Albie is beginning to sound something like a
pukkah sahib.
’
‘Oh yes,’ she said, smiling; ‘he
was
something like. Certainly
something
like.’ She stopped smiling and her expression was suddenly remote. ‘Do you take sugar?’ she said. ‘Milk?’ She gave him the cup of tea. ‘But no one’s perfect,’ she said.
Desire for her had been waxing and waning from one hour in her presence to another; she would seem to invite, and then to elude him. Sometimes she seemed to lead him, unintentionally, into a dark cul-de-sac of the spirit where desire was quite unthinkable.
‘Not until they die,’ Simon said. ‘Then they become perfect. Read the obituaries if you don’t believe me.’
‘True enough,’ she said. ‘Well, that’s something to look forward to.’
‘As long as you want to be perfect.’
‘But of course I do.’
He could have sworn that she was quite serious.
‘You’re a funny girl,’ he said.
‘I’m thirty-three.’
‘A
long
way from perfection.’
‘I can certainly use the time.’
‘You’ve got such a lot more than I have.’
‘Not
such
a lot, surely.’
‘It seems a lot to me.’
‘At any rate, then, you’re nearer perfection than I am.’