On Beauty (37 page)

Now he stood up properly and opened the side door behind him. He found himself in a kind of utility room packed with appliances for washing, drying, ironing and vacuuming. This room led back on to the hallway, and from here Howard kept his head down and turned with the banister, climbing the stairs two by two. On the
upper landing he was confronted by six identical doors and no clues as to which of them might open on to a bathroom. He opened one at random – a pretty bedroom, as clean as a room in a show house, without sign of habitation. Two side tables. A book on each. This was sad. He closed the door and opened the next. What he glimpsed was a wall painted like an Italian fresco, with birds and butterflies and winding vines. He could not imagine such fancy anywhere but a bathroom, so he opened the door a little wider. A bed with a pair of bare human feet at its far end.

‘Sorry!' said Howard and pulled the door too strongly towards him. This had the effect of making it slam and then bounce right back to where it had been and beyond, clattering against the inner wall. Victoria, dressed in her funeral black down to the waist. But the knee-length skirt had been replaced by a very small pair of green velveteen sports shorts with a silver trim. She had been crying. Her long legs were flat out in front of her; now she gathered them up in her arms in surprise.

‘Fucking hell!'

‘Oh, God, I'm sorry! Sorry,' said Howard. He had to step deep into the room to grab the doorknob. He tried to look in the opposite direction as he did so.

‘Howard
Belsey
?' Victoria flipped round on the bed and knelt up.

‘Yes, sorry. I'll just close this.'

‘Wait!'

‘What?'

‘Just – wait.'

‘I'll just . . .' said Howard and began to close the door, but Victoria jumped up now and held the door from the other side.

‘You're
in
now, so come
in
. You're already
in
,' she said angrily and pushed the door shut with her flat hand. They stood close together for a second; then she retreated to the bed and glared at him. Howard held his wine glass with both hands and looked into it.

‘I'm . . . sorry for your loss, I . . .' he began absurdly.

‘
What?
'

Howard looked up and watched Victoria take a swig out of a tall
glass filled with red wine. He saw now that there was an empty wine bottle next to her.

‘I should go. I was looking for the –'

‘Look, you're
in
now. Just sit
down
. We're not in your class now.'

She pushed herself up to the bedstead, and sat leaning against it with crossed legs, her toes in each hand. She was excited, or at least excitable; she fidgeted around on her seat. Howard stayed where he was. He could not move.

‘Thought it was the bathroom,' he said very quietly.

‘
What?
I can't hear you, whatever you're saying.'

‘The walls – thought it was the bathroom.'

‘Oh. Well, no. It's a
boudoir
,' explained Victoria and performed a sloppy, sarcastic flourish with her free hand.

‘I see that,' said Howard, looking about at the vanity table, the sheepskin rug and the chaise covered in a fabric print that seemed to have been the original inspiration for whoever had painted the walls. It did not appear to be a Christian girl's bedroom.

‘And so now,' said Howard steadily, ‘I'm going to go.'

Victoria reached behind her for a huge furry cushion. She threw this violently at Howard, getting him on the shoulder and spilling a little of his wine across his hand.

‘Hello? I'm in
mourning
?' she said with that nasty transatlantic twang Howard had noted before. ‘The very
least
you can do is sit down and give me a bit of
pastoral care
, Dr. Look, if it makes you happier,' she said springing from the bed and tiptoeing across the room to the door, ‘I'll put the lock on so no one can disturb us.' She tiptoed back to the bed. ‘Is that better?'

No, it was not better. Howard turned to leave.

‘Please. I need to talk to someone,' came the breaking voice behind him. ‘You're here. Nobody else is here. They're all praising the Lord downstairs. You're
here
.'

Howard put his fingers to the lock. Victoria thumped her bedcovers.

‘
God!
I won't
hurt
you! I'm asking you to
help
me. Isn't that part of your
job
? Oh, forget it, OK? Just forget it. Fuck off.'

She started to cry. Howard turned around.

‘Shit, shit, shit. I'm so
bored
with crying!' said Victoria through tears, and then began to laugh at herself a little. Howard moved to the chaise opposite the bed and slowly sat down. It was actually a relief to sit down. He was still experiencing an unhelpful head rush from his cigarette. Victoria wiped her tears with the sleeves of her black shirt.

‘Blimey. That's far away.'

Howard nodded.

‘Bit unfriendly.'

‘I'm not a friendly man.'

Victoria took a deep gulp from her tumbler. She touched the silver edges of her green shorts.

‘I must look like a total freak. But I just
have
to be comfy once I'm in the house – I've always been like that. Couldn't take that skirt any longer.
Have
to be comfy.'

She bounced her knees up and down against the mattress. ‘Is your family here?' she asked.

‘I was looking for them. That's what I was doing.'

‘I thought you said you were looking for the loo,' said Victoria accusingly, closing one eye, stretching out her arm and pointing one unsteady finger at him.

‘That too.'

‘Hmm.' She swivelled round again and now bellyflopped towards him, so her feet were against the bedstead and her head not far from Howard's knees. She balanced her glass hazardously on top of the duvet and rested her chin on her hands. She examined his face and, after a time, softly smiled, as if something she found there had amused her. Howard followed her eyes with his own as they roved, trying to focus them on the matter at hand.

‘My mother died,' he attempted, quite unable to hit the note he meant to. ‘So I know what you're going through. I was younger than you when she died. Much younger.'

‘That would probably explain it,' she said. She lost her smile and replaced it with a thoughtful scowl. ‘Why you can't say
I like the tomato
.'

Howard frowned. What game was this? He took out his pocket
of tobacco. ‘I – like – the – tomato,' he said slowly and pulled the Rizlas from the bag. ‘May I?'

‘I don't care. Don't you want to know what that means?'

‘Not terribly. I've got other things on my mind.'

‘It's a Wellington thing – it's a student thing,' said Victoria rapidly, coming up on her elbows. ‘It's our shorthand for when we say, like, Professor Simeon's class is “The tomato's nature versus the tomato's nurture”, and Jane Colman's class is “To properly understand the tomato you must first uncover the tomato's suppressed Herstory” – she's
such
a silly bitch that woman – and Professor Gilman's class is “The tomato is structured like an aubergine”, and Professor Kellas's class is basically “There is no way of proving the existence of the tomato without making reference to the tomato itself”, and Erskine Jegede's class is “The post-colonial tomato as eaten by Naipaul”. And so on. So you say, ‘What class have you got coming up?' and the person says ‘Tomatoes 1670–1900.' Or whatever.'

Howard sighed. He licked one side of his Rizla.

‘Hilarious.'

‘But
your
class – your class is a cult classic. I
love
your class. Your class is all about never
ever
saying
I like the tomato
. That's why so few people take it – I mean, no offence, it's a compliment. They can't handle the rigour of never saying
I like the tomato
. Because that's the worst thing you could ever do in your class, right? Because the tomato's not there to be
liked
. That's what I
love
about your class. It's properly intellectual. The tomato is just totally revealed as this phoney construction that can't lead you to some higher truth – nobody's pretending the tomato will save your life. Or make you happy. Or teach you how to live or
ennoble
you or be
a great example of the human spirit
. Your tomatoes have got nothing to do with
love
or
truth
. They're not fallacies. They're just these pretty pointless tomatoes that people, for totally selfish reasons of their own, have attached cultural – I should say
nutritional
– weight to.' She chuckled sadly. ‘It's like what you're always saying: let's
interrogate
these terms. What's so beautiful about this tomato? Who decided on its worth? I find that really challenging – I wanted to tell you before;
I'm
glad
I've told you. Everybody's so scared of you they don't say anything and I always think
Look, he's just a guy, professors are just people – maybe he'd like to hear that we appreciate this class
, you know? Anyway. Definitely your class is the most rigorous, intellectually . . . Everybody knows it, really, and Wellington is such a nerd heaven so that's basically a serious compliment.'

Here Howard closed his eyes and pulled his fingers through his hair. ‘Out of interest, what is your father's class?'

Victoria considered this a moment. She swigged the rest of her wine down. ‘Tomatoes Save.'

‘Of course.'

Victoria rested her head in her palm and sighed. ‘I can't believe I told you about the tomatoes. I'm going to be excommunicated when we get back.'

Howard opened his eyes and lit his cigarette. ‘I won't tell.'

They smiled at each other, briefly. Then Victoria seemed to recall where she was and why – her face fell, her lips pulled tight and vibrated with the effort of holding back the water in her eyes. Howard sat back into the sofa. For a few minutes they said nothing. Howard puffed away steadily.

‘Kiki,' she said suddenly. And how awful the corruption when you hear the name of your heart in the mouth of the person you are about to betray her with! ‘Kiki,' she repeated, ‘your wife. She's amazing. Looking. She's like a queen. Imperious-looking.'

‘Queen?'

‘She's very beautiful,' said Victoria impatiently, as if Howard were being particularly dense about an obvious truth. ‘Like an African queen.'

Howard pulled harshly on the tight end of his fag. ‘She wouldn't thank you for that description, I'm afraid.'

‘Beautiful?'

Howard blew out his smoke. ‘No, African queen.'

‘Why not?'

‘I think she finds it patronizing, not to mention factually inaccurate – look, Victoria.'

‘
Vee
. How many times!'

‘Vee. I'm going to go now,' he said, but made no move to stand. ‘I don't think I can help you tonight. I think you've drunk a little too much and you're under a great emotional –'

‘Give us some of that.' She pointed to his wine and pushed herself forward. Something she had done with her elbows had squeezed her breasts together, and the peaks of both, shiny with some kind of body cream, now began to communicate with Howard independently of their owner.

‘Give us some, go on,' she said.

In order for her to drink his wine, Howard would have to bring the glass to her lips.

‘One sip,' she said looking over the rim into his eyes. So he tipped it towards her and she drank it tidily. When she drew away from the glass, her mobile, unreasonably large mouth was wet. The ridges in the thick dark lips were like his wife's – plum-coloured in the creases and almost black elsewhere. What was left of her lipstick had retreated back to the corners, as if this were simply too much lip for it to scale.

‘She must be remarkable.'

‘Who?'

‘Bloody hell, keep up. Your wife. She must be remarkable.'

‘Must she?'

‘Yeah. Because my mum doesn't –
didn't
– make friends with just anybody,' said Victoria, her voice catching at this change of tense. ‘She was particular about people. She was hard to get to know. I've been thinking that maybe I didn't get to know her very well . . .'

‘I'm sure that's not –'

‘No, shush,' said Victoria drunkenly and let some tears slip down her face untended, ‘that's not the point – what I was saying is, she didn't suffer fools, you know? They had to be special in some way. They had to be
real people
. Not like you and me. Real, special. So Kiki must be special. Would you say,' said Victoria, ‘that she was special?'

Howard dropped his fag in Victoria's empty glass. Breasts or no breasts, it was time to leave.

‘I'd say . . . that she has enabled my existence in the form that it has taken. And that form is special to us, yes.'

Victoria shook her head ruefully and reached out a hand, which she now placed on his knee.

‘There you are, see? You can never just say . . .
I like the tomato
.'

‘I thought we were talking about my wife, not a vegetable.'

Victoria tapped a correcting finger against his trousers. ‘Fruit, actually.'

Howard nodded. ‘Fruit.'

‘Come on, Dr, give me some more.'

Howard held his glass up and away. ‘You've had enough.'

‘Give me some more!'

She did it. She jumped off the bed and into his lap. His erection was blatant, but first she coolly drank the rest of his wine, pressing down on him as Lolita did on Humbert, as if he were just a chair she happened to sit on. No doubt she had read
Lolita
. And then her arm went round the back of his neck and Lolita turned into a temptress (maybe she had learned from Mrs Robinson too), lasciviously sucking his ear, and then from temptress she moved to affectionate high-school girlfriend, sweetly kissing the corner of his mouth. But what kind of sweetheart was this? He had barely started to return her kiss when she commenced groaning in a disconcertingly enthusiastic manner, and this was followed by a strange fluting business with her tongue, catching Howard off guard. He kept trying to regulate the kiss, to return it back to what he knew of kissing, but she was determined to flicker her tongue in the top of his mouth while keeping a zealous and frankly uncomfortable grip on his balls. Now she began to unbutton his shirt slowly, as if accompanying music were playing, and seemed disappointed not to find a pornographic rug of hair here. She rubbed it conceptually, as if the hair were indeed there, tugging at what little Howard possessed while – could it be? – purring. She pulled him on to the bed. Before he had a chance to consider removing her shirt she had already done the job for him. And then came more of this purring and moaning, although his hands had not yet reached her breasts, and he was presently struggling, at the other
end of the bed, to kick one shoe off by means of attacking it with the other. He lifted up slightly, the better to bend his arm back to reach the resistant shoe. On the bed she seemed to be continuing on without him, writhing in a skittish manner and pulling her fingers through her short dreads, as one might muss hair much longer and blonder.