Her Lover (30 page)

'By the way, Antoinette,' he asked a moment later, 'under what heading do we enter the cost of the dinner party in the household accounts?'

'It will be added to Adrien's personal contribution,' she said, and she stood up. 'Good-night. I am going to bed.'

At ten forty-five the drawing-room was empty save for two men and six biscuits. Monsieur Deume, now swaddled in his woollen greatcoat, suggested that it was time for bye-byes, adding that he had aching legs and an upset stomach. Adrien said that he would hang on for another few minutes, just in case. Monsieur Deume said goodnight and made for the door, looking like sciatica personified. When he reached it, he turned and said: 'If you ask me, something wum's happened.'

After telling Martha she could go to bed, he made himself a scalding hot-water bottle for comfort, checked the assortment of locks and bolts on the front door, turned off the gas, and decided he would sleep in the guest room so as not to disturb Antoinette. In reality he went somewhat in awe of her this evening and preferred to keep his distance.

Monsieur Deume slipped blissfully between the cool sheets and surrendered to joys which, because they were modest and self-contained, were impervious to disappointment, ordering his toes to perform a refreshing little jig, rootling about with his feet for the hot-water bottle and playing little games with it, taking his feet off it to be cold for just a moment, putting one instep under it and raising it an inch or so, for a delicious little change. He was snug in his bed, so too bad if Adrien's chap hadn't come.

Suddenly, outside, brilliant bursts of lightning instantly extinguished, angry claps of thunder which rolled in waves, and the clatter of a violent downpour. 'A weal storm,' murmured the old gentleman and from the comfort of his bed he smiled. How well off a chap was under his own roof, snug in the shelter of this lovely home of theirs! Those poor tramps with no place to call their own, he thought, putting his feet on the hot-water bottle, which was just right, hot but not too hot. Yes, those poor unfortunate tramps, who were at this very moment raking the roads, sheltering under trees, poor creatures. He gave a sigh of genuine compassion, while in her bedroom next door his wife was examining, spread out on the counterpane, the bearer bonds issued by Nestle, which she had told no one she had bought.

He plugged his ears with blobs of wax, a present from Madame van Offel, switched off his bedside lamp, and turned his face to the wall with a smile. Oh yes, he felt pretty fit. Good for another twenty years at least. Tomorrow he must tell Martha that he had a great deal of sympathy with the socialists. That way, if there was a revolution, she would be able to speak on his behalf. He smiled another smile. That white paint he'd put on the pipes in the kitchen had turned out very well. He'd been careful to use the best-quality gloss and given it three coats. In the morning, he'd check to see if the third coat was dry. Maybe it was dry already. Should he pop down now to see, just for a moment?

In the kitchen, wearing only nightshirt and slippers, he bent down over one of the pipes and ran his finger over it. Yes, dry as a bone! He beamed at the pipes, which beamed back dazzling white, and his heart went out to them.

Adrien stood in the middle of the drawing-room and undid his tie, downed a whisky, munched the last biscuit, and looked at his watch yet again. Ten past eleven. Better stay on for another couple of minutes. Oh he knew he wouldn't come now, but just in case he phoned. All the same, it would show a little courtesy to the family if he phoned to apologize or at least explain, dammit. 'Stood-up! And how! It's a bit thick! Unless he's dead.' Obviously if he was dead then he had a perfectly valid excuse. If he was, then he'd have to go to the funeral, he owed him that much. When senior ranks were buried, there were opportunities for making useful contacts. But he wasn't really dead, he knew it in his bones, he wasn't the type to turn up his toes just like that, he still looked pretty young. What he couldn't make out, though, was that he'd definitely told Mummy he was coming. So what the dickens had gone wrong? Nobody had the right to pull a stunt like that! First he wasn't coming to dinner, and they'd got all that caviare in, for God's sake, then he gave his solemn word he'd be arriving at ten, and in the end, zero! Oh no, such behaviour was totally indefensible! 'Or perhaps he forgot the address?'

No, that didn't hold water. When you forgot an address, you looked in the phone book. So, unless he'd dropped dead, he had no excuse. Deep down, he knew he wouldn't phone. God Almighty, you couldn't go round playing fast and loose like that, even if you were the Pope. Still, he was an A. Hello, storm's over. An A. So there.

At a quarter past eleven, after a second whisky, he left the drawing-room, slowly climbed the stairs, punctuating each step of his way with an evil-sounding word while Mumsy's angry snores filled the silence. He stopped when he reached the second-floor landing. Should he go and talk it over with Ariane? It would be a comfort, he could work out with her what to do in the morning if the USG didn't call him in to offer an explanation and especially to ask him to convey his apologies to Mumsy and Ariane, who were ladies, dammit! An apology would save face. Yes, if by tomorrow lunch-time he had not been summoned by the USG, then ask to see him, it would be easy enough to arrange, he was well in with Miss Wilson, hadn't he brought her those almond cakes when he'd got back from Valescure? Should he knock on Ariane's door? She was probably asleep already and she didn't like being woken up. No, best not. Especially since she was being rather hard to please these days.

The best thing, of course, would be that he's had a heart attack, apoplexy and so on. That would wipe his slate clean for not turning up. But even if he comes up with some fairy story, who gives a damn provided he does the honourable thing by the family, and by me too, he owes me that, to show he doesn't despise me. Hell's teeth, let him fob me off with some tale or other, that's all I want. So tomorrow, come straight to the point and ask if he was prevented from coming by a sudden indisposition. That'll suggest the kind of yarn he can spin and honour will be saved. Yes, but if I ask to see him after he's stood me up like this, won't it look as if I'm accusing him of something? Damn, damn, damn!'

In his bedroom, feeling thoroughly disheartened, he tossed his brand-new dinner-jacket on to a chair. He got into his old pyjamas and stood at the foot of the bed, his eyes fixed and staring, contemplating his unhappy lot. Surely he could go and wake her, it was a quite exceptional situation. He took off his pyjamas and put on a new pair, freshly ironed, shuffled into his new slippers, and ran a comb through his thin beard. It was twenty-six minutes past eleven. Yes, why not? He'dgo.

'I mean to say, I am her husband after all.'

CHAPTER 21

Stepping out of her bath, she dried herself quickly, because it was terribly important to be tucked up in bed before eleven thirty at the outside, for otherwise the results could be disastrous. (This little rich girl was descended from a long line of tender flowers accustomed to taking good care of themselves, who laid great stress on fatigue, on rest which overcomes fatigue, and on sleep which brings rest. One rule considered self-evident by the Auble clan was that if one retired for the night after eleven o'clock, one ran the risk of not sleeping, which was an abomination and a fate worse than death. The fear of going to bed late, transmitted from one generation to the next, verged on mania in Auble women, who led idler lives than their menfolk and were therefore more addicted to morbid introspection, more preoccupied by what they called the state of their nerves, and they took great care not to become overtired, forced themselves to go on frequent holidays, which did them good, they said, and above all never went to bed late. Which explains why of an evening, after dinner, the genteel drawing-room conversation was regularly interrupted by one of these ladies who, suddenly setting down her crewel-work or embroidery, would exclaim with an anguished start: 'Heaven! Look at the time! Twenty to eleven! There's just time to get ready for bed!' It goes without saying that next morning, at the breakfast table, the first thought of these ladies was to tell each other how they had slept, in a spirit of keen and kindly interest and a specialized jargon of fine detail and subtle distinctions such as: 'Yes, I slept well, perhaps not as well as I might have, anyway not as well as the night before last.' Throughout her childhood and adolescence, Ariane had scrupulously observed the sacred eleven o'clock rule, which Aunt Valérie had invoked on many occasions. She still went in childish awe of it. Yet ever since she had been of age, perhaps influenced by her Russian friend, she had come round to the view that as a grown woman she could put back her bedtime by half an hour. But if she was any later than eleven thirty she panicked at the likely prospect of a sleepless night.)

With a sigh of relief that she had not missed the deadline, she crept between the sheets at twenty-nine minutes past eleven and turned out the light at once. Lying in the dark, she smiled. There had been no ring at the door since she had come upstairs. So the beast hadn't come. Egg all over the collective Deume face.

'Serves them right,' she murmured, and curled herself up into a ball.

She was composing herself for sleep when there were two light taps on her door. It must be him. What did he want now? She decided not to answer. He would think she was asleep and give up. And a few moments later she did indeed hear him go back to his room and shut his door. Saved! Curled up once more, she shut her eyes again. Damn, he was coming back. Two knocks, louder this time. O God, why couldn't he leave her in peace? Might as well answer and get it over with.

'Who's there?' she said with a groan, pretending to wake with a start.

'It's me, darling. Can I come in?'

'All right.'

'You don't mind me disturbing you?' he asked as he entered.

'No,' she said, and she put on a ghostly, long-suffering smile.

'Don't worry, I shan't stay long. I'd just like to know what you make of it, I mean the fact that he didn't show up.-'

'Dunno. He must have been prevented.'

'Yes, but it's odd, don't you think, that he didn't even phone to let us know, or send his apologies or anything. Say: what do you think I ought to do tomorrow? Should I go and see him?'

'Yes, go and see him.'

'But that might put his back up, it might sort of look like a criticism, as if I was asking him to explain himself.'

'Well don't, then.'

'Yes, but on the other hand I can't just leave things as they are. I mean, what sort of idiot would I look if I bump into him and he doesn't say anything? I mean, I've got my pride. What do you think?'

'Best go and see him.'

'Are you cross because I came?' he asked after a pause.

'No. But I'm feeling rather sleepy.'

'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come. Sorry. I'll go now. Good-night, darling.'

'Good-night,' she smiled. 'Pleasant dreams,' she said. It was his reward for going away.

He got as far as the door then turned and came back.

'Look, can I stay for two more minutes?'

'Yes, of course.'

He sat down on the edge of the bed and took her hand. Ever the model wife, she arranged her lips in a fixed smile while he peered at her through his glasses with spaniel eyes and waited for her to comfort him. When the words he hoped to hear did not come, he tried to drag them out of her.

'You know, it's been a bit of a let-down for me.'

'Yes, I see that,' she said, and then reverted to her fixed smile.

'What would you advise me to do?'

'I don't know. Wait for him to apologize.'

'Yes, but what if he doesn't apologize?'

'No idea,' she said, and glanced towards the clock on the mantelpiece.

In the silence, he stared at her and waited. She thought only of the minutes which dropped one by one into the silence. If he stayed much longer the deadline would go by and she'd be in for a sleepless night. He had promised he would, only stay for two minutes, but he'd been sitting there for well over two minutes just goggling at her. Why wasn't he sticking to his promise? She knew exactly what he was after: reassurance. But if she started being comforting they'd be there for ages. He would raise objections to her reassuring words to make her console him some more, and the whole business would drag on until two in the morning. His clammy hand on hers felt most unpleasant. Her subtle efforts to free herself failing to produce any effect, she said that she had pins and needles, took her hand away, and looked at the clock.

'I'll
stay another minute and then I'll go.'

'Yes,' she smiled.

Suddenly he stood up.

'You're not very nice to me.'

She sat up in bed. How unfair! She had answered him nicely, she had gone on smiling at him, and here he was finding fault!

'In what way?' she asked, looking him in the eye. 'In what way aren't I nice?'

'All you want is to see the back of me, and yet you know how much I need you.'

These last words made her see red. Who was this man to be needing her all the time?

'It's ten to twelve,' she said pointedly.

'So what if I was to get ill and you had to keep watch by my bedside, how would you manage then?'

'She had a sudden vision of herself sitting up all night by his bed, and she was rilled with fury against this man who never gave a thought to anyone except himself. She put on her stoniest expression, unyielding and hard. She had turned into a crazed ice-maiden, incapable of thinking of anything beyond her threatened sleep, so terrorized was she by the prospect of a night of insomnia. He repeated his question.

'I don't know! I don't know!' she shouted. 'I have no idea what I would do. But what I do know is that it's eight minutes to midnight! Why choose the middle of the night to start a question-and-answer session? And why bring up all this rubbish about falling ill? (She felt an urge to say that there were nurses to look after the sick, but thought better of it.) Now I'll never get to sleep, thanks to your selfishness!'