Born of Woman (34 page)

The phone slammed down the other end. Jennifer was trembling. She still had no idea what had happened, why Lyn and Susie had quarrelled in the first place. She hardly knew whose side to take. It had been easy to plan her get-away with Lyn, when Susie seemed remote, but as soon as she heard her voice again, she was thrown into confusion. Susie hollered out the criticisms she had spent three years hushing up. She could hear her taunts still snarling round the room.

I doubt if he's a man at all …

Neurotic impossible self-centred pig …

Bloody glad he's pissed off—didn't want him here …

Treats you like a nun …

Furious with Susie for saying things like that—rude, unfair, untrue, uncaring things. No, not unfair. Rude, maybe, but not untrue. Angry with Lyn, not Susie.
Furious
with Lyn. Impossible, self-centred Lyn, keeping her in handcuffs, trampling on her confidence, denying her a normal married life.

…
screw everything in sight
…

Ridiculous. Only sluts behaved like that. She was Jennifer Winterton, calm, famous, charming, chaste.
Sometimes, I wish to God I'd never married him
. No, she hadn't said that. Someone else was speaking, someone cruel and selfish. Turn the muzak on. Nice quiet schmaltzy melody from South Pacific.
‘Some enchanted evening …'
She undid her dress—Lyn's favourite dress. She should have worn her scarlet jeans for Susie. Scarlet jeans with studs. ‘…
you will see a stranger
.'

A stranger.
If I was you, I'd go out on the town and pick up the first randy bloke …
That was just Susie being childish. She stripped off tights and bra and pants. If Jennifer Winterton went out on the town, she had to have an escort and a chaperon, a reporter and a photographer.

Photographer
. She was already in her nightie. Turn the music off and get into bed. A pill if she was overwrought, a nice quiet read to calm her down. She picked up her magazine. She was in the middle of a story, had reached the bit where the foreign diplomat was fondling his new interpreter, fingers fumbling through the housecoat for her breasts. She touched her own nipples, surprised to find them hard. Hard like studs. Must disown them, go to bed—alone. She paused a moment before switching off the radio. She liked the man who was singing. He had a deep, throaty voice which reminded her of Oz's, a voice which lapped against her body.

‘Who can explain it, who can tell you why?

Fools give you …'

She turned up the volume, so that the ‘fools' shouted through the room. She was a fool, a fool—crazy, wild, resentful, furious. It was
sex
she wanted. That word she was never allowed to say because she was the contented Country Woman who got all her satisfactions from her happy solid marriage and her fulfilling country crafts; because she was delightfully old-fashioned and made love and cheeses with the same retiring modesty.

Rubbish! She hadn't made a cheese since the Sales Conference and she hadn't made love for so long, she had probably rusted up. Anyway, it
wasn't
love. Love was habit, safety, handcuffs, clinging on to someone because …

She flung the magazine down, dragged on her clothes again. She didn't bother with bra or tights, just dress and pants and sandals. She reached for her handbag, scrabbled at the bottom, drew out the crumpled card.

He wasn't a stranger, he was a photographer. Perhaps he'd like another session, fit in some night shots, try a different angle. All she wanted, really, was to talk to someone.

Oz had
invited
her to call him, told her he stayed up late. She picked up the receiver, dialled his number, put it down again. Mustn't act impulsively. Better wait till morning, phone Putney again, coax Susie to unlock the doors and drag Lyn to the phone. He really ought to leave, still—both of them escape from Susie's pull.

She started unbuttoning her dress. Stopped at the second button. Would Oz still have those jeans on, or would he have changed into pyjamas? Maybe he slept naked in silk sheets or …

He wouldn't be up at all if she didn't phone him soon. But she wasn't going to phone. She was going to wait for Lyn and morning—romantic tryst at dawn before striking north for Hernhope—the house which was a wilderness, the husband who was an impossible neurotic gloomy selfish pig and who'd see in the dawn slumped in his car outside Susie's bolted doors.

The number sounded sleepy when it rang.

‘Steadman.' If only he'd said hallo. Surnames were so hostile on their own.

‘It's … er … Jennifer here.'

‘Who?'

‘Jennifer Winterton. You … um … took some photographs of me this afternoon.'

‘Oh yeah—course. Sorry, darling. Bit late for calls, isn't it?'

‘I'm sorry. I've … only just got back from dinner. Thought you might like that … drink you mentioned.'

‘What, now?'

Jennifer shut the Bible, stuffed it in the drawer. ‘W … Why not?'

‘OK. Want me to come round?'

‘Oh, no, no. Not here. I mean …' Jonathan's room was just along the corridor. He was trained to respond to her every murmur, meet her every need. If he heard her stir, he might come fussing along with aspirins or Alka Seltzer.

‘My place, then?'

‘Well, I thought we might—you know—go to a bar or something.' What would
Susie
suggest? ‘Or how about a disco?'

‘I'm flaked, darling. I've been working since five am. Grab a taxi and come over here, if you like. Jesmond's only a mile or so from the centre. I'll fix you a nightcap, shall I?'

‘Oh … right. Thanks.'

Slut. Flirt. Fool.
I'd screw every bloody man I could lay my hands on … There will once again be pastures … Jennifer Winterton continues the serene pastoral tradition of her mother-in-law, returning to a life where fulfilment lies in … Screwing's only like eating … Five blokes in a night … Impossible, neurotic pig … She has deliberately chosen the rural backwater and high ideals which belong strictly to a … I don't know how you stand it. Go and pick up the first randy bloke …

‘Silence!' she almost shouted. One footling nightcap couldn't be worth this conflict and upheaval. She would go simply to escape herself, her multitude of selves. Go for a breath of air, a glass of wine, a snatch or two of normal conversation.

She closed her bedroom door as softly as she could, crept down the stairs, dodged the receptionist. It was all so easy. The doorman hailed her a taxi within ten seconds, and the driver had whisked her to Elm Gardens before she had finished first-aiding her face. The street looked reassuringly suburban, even in the dark. Three weren't any elms, but neat front gardens with pink geraniums glowing in the porch lights and even the odd gnome grinning among the salvias and stocks. It seemed a hundred miles from the grimy, noisy centre of the town. Oz couldn't be too dangerous if he lived in a pebble-dash and stucco semi with a crazy-paving path.

She walked up the path and knocked. They could always chat about gardening. His buddleia needed trimming and that holly bush was hogging all the light.

Oz came to the door still in his dark glasses and the jeans. He had changed his purple shirt, though, and now wore a black one, straining against a heavy leather belt. He had flung a sweater round his shoulders, which emphasised their width and contrasted with the narrow denimed hips. His clothes seemed not so much to cover him as display the structure underneath.

‘H … hallo.' Stupid to be blushing when she was meant to be a Name.

‘Hi there! Come on in.'

‘I … like your garden.'

‘It's poison! The woman next door complained about the weeds, so I went all helpless male, until she offered to look after it. She was busy enough with three kids and four cats. Now she's got two gardens and six gnomes. Mind you, I'm not so sure that gnomes are any advance on dandelions. I loathe the outdoor life myself. Sit down.'

Somehow Jennifer had reached his living-room and was standing staring at a sort of picture gallery. The whole downstairs of the house had been knocked into one large room, its walls almost entirely covered with blown-up photographs. The subjects were mostly women and mostly naked. Jennifer averted her eyes from nipples and buttocks and looked for something to sit on. There were no safe or solid chairs, only a vast upholstered couch with neither back nor arms, and a pile of purple cushions. She chose a cushion, tried to yank her skirt down over her knees. There were naked knees interspersed among the nipples on the wall.

Oz was searching through a trayful of glasses, trying to find two clean ones. ‘What'll you have to drink? Damn! There's only whisky or an inch or two of rum.'

‘Er … whisky, then.' She hated whisky, but at least it might help her to relax. A lean and scraggy mongrel was growling in a corner, white teeth bared in a savage-looking jaw.

‘Good boy,' she said, holding out her hand.

‘He's not good. A pain in the arse, in fact. Thank God he's not permanent. A fashion model friend of mine asked me to look after him. When she said ‘‘pooch'', I somehow pictured something tiny like a chihuahua, or endearing like a spaniel, or at least a pedigree. She found him shivering in the gutter and took him in. I suspect he calms her social conscience. She can't be criticised for earning ten times more than a nurse or social worker when she's relieving the pressure on the Battersea Dogs' Home. No, I wouldn't touch him, if I were you. He's not too keen on strangers.'

Stranger.
Some enchanted evening
. Nothing very enchanted about it yet. She could hear the rain still slapping against the windows. Her back ached from perching on the cushion, trying to tuck her bare legs out of sight. The whisky tasted bitter, the glass had a chip in it. Wherever she looked, Oz's work embarrassed or depressed her. Between the nudes were full-frontal studies of bleeding butchered casualties from some indeterminate war. Oz himself was hacking ice out of a tray, cursing when a cube slipped from his fingers and skidded to the floor.

‘You want ice, do you?'

‘Er … please.'

He lounged across, plopped two cubes in her glass. She tugged at her dress again, clamped her knees together. Oz was crouching right in front of her, jeans straining across his groin, face very close to hers.

‘Cheers,' he said.

‘Ch … cheers.' She could smell newly applied after-shave, mixed with all-day sweat.

‘Enjoying your tour?'

‘Yes. It's … er … finished now, though. I'm flying back tomorrow.'

‘Shame.' Oz stretched, yawned, returned to the whisky bottle, poured himself a double. She wished she could see his eyes. The dark glasses made her nervous. She couldn't tell where he was looking or judge the expression on his face. She felt somehow in the way. He had probably been about to go to bed, and she was keeping him up, forcing him into small talk. She didn't even have the talk. He would be used to witty repartee from model girls and jet-setters, and she had hardly said a word, yet. She glanced around the room for inspiration, stared at a colour shot of six out-of-focus Pepsi Cola cans towering above a napalm victim.

‘Are these your …
own
photographs?'

‘Yeah, most of them.'

‘Do you do much advertising work?'

‘Work's finished, sweet.'

Silence. He sounded bored now, even irritable, totally different from Oz the Photographer who had dazzled her and Newcastle only hours ago.

Then, he'd been all sinewy grace and charm, all interest and encouragement. Now, he was standing tense and rigid by the mantelpiece, fiddling with an ornament. He was probably shocked by her appearance, the change from full regalia to her present slovenly dress. Susie's
Cosmopolitan
said if you weren't a natural beauty, then try Sympathetic Seductress. Ask him about his hobbies, listen, draw him out. Oz's hobby was music—that was obvious.

‘I … er … like your stereo.'

‘So you should! That's more than a thousand quid's worth. I've just bought bigger speakers with the most fantastic bass. Want to hear?'

‘Mmm. That would be nice.' Music would fill the silence, make things more relaxed.

‘Anything you fancy?' Oz waved at half a wall of records and cassettes.

‘Y … you choose.'

‘I'm a Westbrook fan myself.' Oz was kneeling in front of his record collection like a worshipper at a shrine. ‘Know the latest album?'

‘N … no. Not …
well
.'

‘It really breaks new ground. I'll play it for you, shall I?'

‘Yes, please.' She tried to sound eager, prayed he would leave the record-sleeve on show, so that at least she could discover whether Westbrook was male or female, pop or rock.

‘Why don't you sit on the couch? The acoustics are better there. You'll be bang between the speakers.'

‘Oh … right.' Jennifer eased up from her cushion. The dog had sleuthed her and was standing guard like a gaoler with his prisoner, hackles raised, jaw still menacing. She shifted her legs from the radius of his teeth. ‘Good fellow. Sit then,
sit
.'

Oz swivelled round. ‘The only word he understands is kill. Down, Bruce! Get away.'

Bruce sprang. Jennifer dodged, backed, capsized her glass of whisky with her foot. ‘Gosh, I'm sorry. I've spoilt your carpet and …' She watched the amber liquid soak into the pile, fumbled for the Kleenex she knew she hadn't got.

‘Don't worry. It's had worse than that spilt on it. It's that bloody hound's fault. Get
out
, Bruce! Are you OK? He hasn't hurt you, has he? Here, let me get you a fill-up.'

Jennifer passed her glass across. Matthew would have fussed around with floorcloths, made her feel a clumsy bungling child. Oz sounded quite solicitous—more concerned for her than for his carpet. She had probably misjudged him. He was just tired, perhaps, or even shy without the panoply of his cameras to hide behind. She sympathised with shyness. They needed Susie there, to help them change the mood. Susie was never at a loss. She would be on her feet by now, kicking off her shoes, gulping down Oz's whisky, whirling him round the room with her, enjoying what she called a bit of fun.