Odd Girl Out (7 page)

When Anne came back with the linen, she said, ‘What a beautiful room this is. Oh please don’t bother to make my bed: I can perfectly well do it myself.’ She waited a moment, and then
said, ‘I really
am
sorry that I didn’t ring up. I see how thoughtless it was.’

‘That’s perfecriy all right. Let’s do the bed together: we can make it in two ticks.’

Arabella was very bad, if not hopeless, at making beds. She always seemed to be the wrong end, and obviously knew nothing of hospital corners. Eventually, Anne did most of it for her.
‘You’ve got two blankets on the bed and there’s one in the cupboard, in case you need it. Now I’ll leave you to unpack a bit, and whenever you feel like it, come down and
have a drink. Down the stairs, and the second door on your right.’

There was a basin in the room. Arabella found her sponge bag, laid out its contents on the glass shelf, and washed her face with very hot water, a practice she always found comforting. She
looked out of the windows. They were at different angles of the room: two looked out on to the drive, and the other one on to a lawn with a beautiful and drooping old tree and wide, neat
flower-beds crammed with flowers. A blackbird was creaking about in the wistaria, making fussy, clucking sounds, as though someone had come to stay the night with
him
or
her
unexpectedly. She groped in her Greek bag for her comb, and dragged it through her hair. She had sweated so much what with the heat and sickness, that it was dank and streaky. Her shirt was dirty,
and so were her feet. She decided to find a loo, and if there was a bathroom, perhaps she might have a quick shower.

Outside her room, everything was very quiet; as though she was the only person in the house. A clock downstairs chimed; a tinny silken sound. The passage had flower prints mounted in olive-green
canvas and framed in gold. She turned left outside her room because there was more passage there away from the staircase, and a number of white-painted doors. The first one was the linen cupboard,
and she shut it again quickly, afraid that someone would see her and think she was prying. The next was a very small single room with a single white bed in it. Opposite, then. Here were three
doors, and the first she found was the loo. Next to it was a bathroom, but it had no shower, and she felt it was too much to have a bath without asking. She trailed back to her room and washed her
feet in the basin, very uncomfortable, but she stood on her own shirt – the dirty one – not to spoil the carpet. Then she began hunting in her bags for a clean shirt. She could not find
one, and as she felt cold and queasy, decided on a sleeveless cashmere. I don’t want a drink, or dinner, she thought: I just want to go to bed.

Downstairs, Edmund was opening a bottle of wine, while Anne added to the salad.

‘But if Clara rang you today, and seemed to think she was with us, why didn’t you
tell
me?’

‘It never occurred to me that she wouldn’t ring up. And anyway, if you’ve been in Maidenhead or Henley all day, it wouldn’t have been any use would it?’

‘No.’

‘Well, don’t
worry
about it.’ He put a hand lightly on her shoulder, and when it was there, pressed down a little. ‘Have a sherry. It’s far too hot to argue
about a silly schoolgirl.’

‘Is that what she is?’

‘
I
don’t know. She behaved rather like one. She was sick in the car coming from the station.’

‘In
the car?’

‘No – out of it, luckily. I got her out in time.’ He handed her a glass. ‘Oh – Sir William insisted on sending you these.’ He indicated the wilting bunch on
the draining-board.

‘Oh! Oh,’ she repeated after seeing them. ‘How kind of him. Did you have lunch with him, then?’

‘Yes. Worse than usual. I’ve had
the
most awful day. London is like a steam oven.’

‘So have I. Nothing has gone right.’ They started to tell each other about the day, until one of them heard Arabella descending the stairs. Anne put the carnations in water, and
Edmund fetched another glass for their guest.

They dined off
salade niçoise
and cold lamb. Arabella ate very little. They found themselves telling her about their days, and she listened and tried very hard to understand them.
After the meal, Edmund went to make coffee.

‘He always makes it,’ Anne told Arabella. We go into the sitting-room.’

Arabella followed her obediently into the long, low-ceilinged room, nearly dark now, in spite of the french windows looking on to the lawn and several other windows as well. Anne lit a standard
lamp by the open fireplace and instantly it was assailed by tiny moths veering and tapping upon the shade.

‘We’ll have to shut the big window, anyway, or else sit in the dark.’

Arabella stood irresolutely by the lamp wondering whether they were having the kind of evening they would anyway have without her.

Anne, coming back from shutting the french window, suddenly saw her, as it were, for the first time: her head bent down to look at a foot scuffing a dead moth from the carpet; with the
mini-skirt and her small breasts in the scanty sweater she looked leggy and forlorn, like someone who had just lost their identity as a child and had not yet found anything to put in its place.
Before she had thought about it, she said, ‘Poor thing: you look very tired. You aren’t feeling homesick, by any chance, are you?’

But Arabella answered in a colourless voice. ‘Oh no. I couldn’t be
that,
I’ve nowhere to be it for.’ But she did sit down – on the floor – and at the
same moment, Edmund came in with the coffee tray and Anne sneezed.

‘I told you, you should have finished your hair off. Arabella wouldn’t have minded a bit, would you?’

‘Oh no.’

‘Now, coffee and what, Arabella? There’s brandy, Marc, and Mirabelle.’

‘I’d like some brandy, please.’

Edmund gave her what Arabella privately described as ‘mingy English’.

‘Darling? Your usual?’

‘Yes please.’

Edmund poured Anne a much more generous Mirabelle while she dispensed coffee.

A not very peaceful silence reigned. Edmund cast himself upon the sofa with a slightly exaggerated air of comfort; Anne perched upon the arm – nearest his feet and also the lamp – of
this piece of furniture, and Arabella continued to be on the floor with cup and glass ranged round her. Edmund sipped his Marc and took a swig of coffee. Any two of them might have been able to
converse, but three – or this particular combination of it – seemed to make this impossible. Anne was by now thoroughly curious about Arabella, but this simply meant that only direct,
and unduly personal questions occurred to her. Edmund could only think of the minutiae he was in the habit of exchanging with Anne at this time of the evening, and felt inhibited by the realization
that this would exclude Arabella. Arabella, who was feeling not too good, felt that she could hardly say, ‘I’ve had an abortion this morning and so I feel pretty ropey, would you mind
if I went to bed?’ but nothing else occurred to her. In the end they settled for a record of Scarlatti, and either listened, or thought their own thoughts.

When the record was over, Arabella got to her feet and said, ‘Would you mind if I went to bed now? I’ve had rather a long day. And would it be all right for me to have a bath?’

Both Cornhills seemed instantly animated at the idea of her going to bed. She noticed this, and with a final effort to be the right kind of guest said that she had found her way to the bathroom
thank you, and she was sure she would find the passage lights. This made Anne recall this morning’s failure with the bedside lamp.

‘Edmund, darling, could she have the one out of your study, just for this evening?’

Edmund said of course, and went to get it. This left Arabella stranded: she felt she could hardly stump up to bed and expect Edmund (or Anne, come to that) to install the new lamp for her. So
she said, ‘That was lovely Scarlatti. Was it by any chance played by Nina Milkina?’

Anne went to the gramophone to look. ‘Yes, it was. However did you know?’

‘I didn’t exactly know: I sort of guessed. You see, I knew a good many people it couldn’t be – like George Malcolm or Horowicz, but it sounded too good to be anybody
else.’

‘I didn’t know you were musical.’

‘One of my stepfathers was, and he conducted a sort of blitz on my musical education. It was awful while it lasted, but in retrospect it’s turned out to be a good thing. It’s
provided me with a resource, and I’m a bit short of them.’

Edmund reappeared with an Anglepoise lamp half folded in his arms – like some old vulture, Arabella thought. ‘No, no, I’ll take it up for you. Then I’ll be sure it
works.’

At the door, Arabella paused, turned to Anne, and said, ‘What happens in the mornings?’

‘Well, we usually have breakfast in bed.’

‘Oh that would be lovely. Could I sleep a bit, though, and not be too early? Just this once?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good night, then, and thank you again for having me.’

‘Good night, Arabella. I do hope you sleep well.’

When Edmund came downstairs again, he found Anne collecting Arabella’s coffee cup and glass off the floor.

‘That was a bit cool. Expecting breakfast in bed. Who is supposed to supply it?’

Anne said, ‘Oh, I can easily do her a tray while you are having your bath.’

‘I don’t like to think of you having your mornings upset by a total stranger.’

‘Well, she won’t go on being one, and I’m sure we shall find a compromise.’

Edmund kissed her lightly on her now almost dry hair. Compromises suited him, nearly as well as not having to come to a decision.

‘What do you think of her?’

Anne thought many things before replying neutrally, ‘She seems not at all well: not herself, as they say. So I don’t think I know. I’ll have to wait and see.’

‘Leave the tray for Mrs Gregory, and come to bed.’

‘What do
you
think of her?’ Anne asked.

‘My dear, I have no thoughts of her at all. She simply isn’t the kind of person who comes into my orbit. If she becomes obtrusive, we’ll get rid of her. I’ll tell Clara
to fetch her away. I don’t want our island disturbed.’

Island was what he called their continuous and very private life together. Anne had once thought this a trifle precious, but now she simply accepted it as apt. Their joint lives
were
an
island, with occasional trips to some mainland or other for domestic or social supplies. Edmund got into bed beside her, and felt her small, naked, but luxuriant body. She arched her back slightly
at his touch, and their great, mutual pleasure began.

Arabella managed quite well all the time she was having her bath, unpacking her night things, cleaning her teeth and doing her hair into one thick plait. She also took her mind
off things while she struggled to get the Anglepoise into a sensible position, but when it either glared at her or collapsed, she gave up, turned it off, lay rigidly on her back in the dark and
cried without making any sound at all.

N
EITHER
Edmund nor Anne mentioned their anniversary the next morning: Edmund because he had forgotten, and Anne because she
thought Edmund liked to keep any celebration of it until the evening. This formula had persisted ever since their first year, when Anne had put a packet on the breakfast tray and wept when Edmund
had not seemed – as indeed he had not – to notice it. He had then, with great presence of mind, said no, no, it was not that he had forgotten – how could he? – it was simply
that he wanted the festivities to be when he came home from the office and could really enjoy them. In London, he had rushed to Harvey and Gore and bought an eighteenth-century paste necklace of
peacock blue, and then, in Fortnum’s a bottle of Mitsouko and a jar of caviare. He had then told his secretary that she must always remind him of Anne’s birthday and this particular
anniversary on the mornings of these dates. All subsequent secretaries had been faithful in this respect and Edmund preferred to buy presents under the pressure of time: it made him more generous
and inspired. On her birthday, he took Anne out to dinner; on their anniversary she cooked him a feast. This morning, however, both were in any case preoccupied: Edmund wondering what on earth he
could say to Clara if Anne and Arabella didn’t get
on;
Anne because she realized that she would have to dash into Henley for a third sole because, of course, Arabella was going to be
there, stopping it being the kind of evening it usually was …

‘… let Mrs Gregory get her breakfast for her,’ Edmund was saying.

‘Oh – I don’t mind doing it.’

‘You’re a saint: you don’t mind anything.’

‘Anyway, Mrs Gregory doesn’t get here until ten.’

‘Well, she can wait till ten then, can’t she?’

‘Don’t worry about it, honestly.’

‘I’m
not worrying; I just don’t want you to.’

‘Well then, I just won’t. Have a good day, darling. Thank Sir William for those loathsome flowers.’

‘You know, I rather like your hair when it hasn’t been set. You look like some Victorian waif – a Pip or an Oliver.’ He picked up a lock of it and let it fall back
against her forehead. ‘I’ll tell him they are your favourite flowers.’

‘Don’t! He’s so kind, he’ll keep giving them to me.’

‘My dear, he doesn’t remember anything. He forgot about
you
yesterday. Kept on about me having a jolly good affair with somebody.’

‘Horrible old man!’

‘No, no, no. Dear old deaf creature. He simply thinks he’s the only person in the world who’s had a perfect marriage. He bent to kiss her. ‘Little does he
know.’

He was gone: she was alone – except for Ariadne, who lay like a creature stuffed, so full that her eyes were glassy at the end of her bed. And, of course, except for Arabella.

Arabella woke to find herself alone in a strange bed. It did not take her long to remember where she was, only about a second’s fear; no bed was strange after the first
night. She lay, perfectly still, trying partly to remember, partly not to remember what it had been like yesterday. Pretty awful: she thought of some other awful days in her life to see where it
stood, and discovered that she was really only thinking of particular awful
bits
of days; sometimes just moments that had pounced on her, revelations, things she had half not been meant to
know, but had found out, people who suddenly turned into somebody else, being stranded in places where she knew no one, starting to feel ill and having to disguise it, trying to find out what
people, or any person, expected of her; thunderstorms when she was alone, being sent for to be talked to by Clara and so on: one didn’t remember whole days for long; only the landslides in
them – the peak, or falling-off-the-peak, moments as it were. Among days she could remember, yesterday stood pretty high for awfulness. In her experience, awful times were usually followed by
a dull calm: nothing very much happened, or if it did, one was simply blinded by some preceding dazzle of catastrophe and didn’t notice it. It was amazing, how you stretched and shrank to and
from occasions, and how you seemed always to be handed just the right amount more than you could stand; in fact that, hating it, you
could
stand. She decided that she must spend the day
being the perfect guest, and also finding out whether she wanted to be a guest of any kind. The less she wanted that, the easier it would be to be perfect. Instant perfect worked with a surprising
number of people, and nearly everybody could be it: chronic perfect was being a saint, and they, like dragons or angels, were simply mythological kicks for the imagination. She was just deciding to
get up and go to the loo, when there was a knock on her door. She pretended to be asleep, and after two more knocks, the door was opened and somebody came in with a tray: Anne, she saw, through
nearly closed eyes. While Anne deposited the tray and drew the curtains, she went through the motions of waking up.