The Rules of Engagement (20 page)

“
Do you go there every day?
”
I said quickly, while
signalling for the bill.

“
Most days, yes.
”

“
Not the weekends, surely?
”

“
Well, sometimes, if Constance has something for
me to do I quite often help out in the house, or go
to the shops, although of course there's a
housekeeper.
”

“
You're not a domestic, Betsy,
”
I
said, sincerely shocked.

“
I enjoy it. What else would I do? Besides
they're so nice. Constance says I'm such a
help. And Edmund says she's
grateful to have more time to herself.
”

“
When did he say this?
”

“
He sometimes gives me a lift home.
”

Her helpless smile, the unguarded look of
reminiscence in her eyes, which she sought to disguise
by looking out of the window, were eloquent in a way no
words could convey. Nor were words needed to complete the
picture. The picture was already complete.

I felt a sadness which had nothing to do with
jealousy but was both more intimate and more universal.
It was the same sadness I had felt when I had
finally packed my books away, as if henceforth
I should be excluded from their stories of trials
endured and sometimes overcome. Endurance I knew
about but I could see no victory at the end,
merely an unwanted stasis. We were in the
triumphalist 1980's, when it was almost indecent
for a woman to be bereft and to yearn. I felt at
one with all those people on the sidelines of life,
forced to contemplate the successful manoeuvres in
which others were engaged, obliged to listen politely
and to refrain from comment. There were no surprises
here: this situation had been adumbrated from the start.
Indeed I felt as though I had almost willed it,
though in fact I had always been an observer.
Now, if I were not very careful, I should be called
upon to observe another woman's love affair, and
worse, to hear every word I spoke to be an agent
of compromise, as if I welcomed this
development which estranged me even further from a
role I had once occupied, as if I were something
neutral and colourless and well-meaning that could be
called upon for protection and approval.

Nothing was left of the tactician I had once
been, offering manufactured excuses, getting
away, as I now saw it, with murder. The sun
had seemed to shine on my adventure, not only
metaphorically but physically, as I sat in that
garden that was now only a memory. It had been
spring, summer, but now the sky was grey, the
mornings dark. I was dominated by the pathetic
fallacy; the declining year mirrored my
situation. And all I could count on was the night,
on which I had come to rely. I yearned for those
night hours at low points during the day, went
to bed earlier and earlier, making an unnecessary
ritual of bathing, comforted myself with a tisane,
listened respectfully to the news in an attempt
to connect myself with the outside world, in much the same
spirit as I read the newspapers in the
morning, eager for facts which did not on the whole
concern me much. My safety was assured for as
long as I did nothing, behaved discreetly,
kept my remarks anodyne. The reward for all
this was sleep. If I were not careful I should
dematerialize. In comparison with this prospect
Paris seemed once more a viable alternative.

I saw Betsy looking at me with concern, and
I rearranged my features into the sort of
pleasant smile that was obviously required of
me. Our positions had been reversed, as was all
too plain, but she was too innocent to know the
reasons for this. She must be kept in that state, if
necessary at my expense, for I had been
sufficiently imbued with the spirit of the times to believe
in sisterly solidarity, although I knew this to be a
fiction in the face of rivalry. But I had
retired from this particular conflict, or been
retired from it. I viewed my immense courage
with astonishment, but in truth I was no fighter, and
had always found my best protection to be my
independence. Now I was not so sure, but to manage
things differently was beyond my powers. I saw the
logical outcome of my history to be a form of
exile, both figurative and actually available
if I had the further courage to put this
into effect. And I need not confine myself to Paris;
if I chose I could go anywhere, absent myself for
good. On my honeymoon in Venice I had sat
on the steps of the Redentore, and thought,
“
Is this
all?
”
This was not so much incapacity as a longing for
further fullness, for completion. I was
sufficiently
clear-sighted
to know that I had
experienced that completion only briefly, and that
memory is no substitute for permanence. Now
my place had been taken by another, whose blithe
smile had reflected only confidence throughout her
life and to whom I could not refuse a favourable
outcome. That that was unlikely only added an
extra poignancy to a situation which seemed to have
come about at the behest of a dramatist of the old
school. I was determined to behave well, for that was
what I should be called upon to do. I no longer had
any choice in this matter, and there was no one
to blame.

“
Are you all right?
”
I heard, as if from a
distance.

“
Me? Fine.
”

“
Only you're so quiet, not like you somehow. Of
course you've had a rough time.
”
Her
face twisted into a sympathy which was clearly
genuine.
“
You need cheering up.
”

I could not quarrel with that.
“
What do you
suggest?
”

“
Something new to wear, perhaps? I always think that
helps. Let's see what they've got here.
”

“
I hardly think ...
”

“
While we're here. You're not in a hurry,
are you?
”

No, I was not in a hurry, was even averse
to going home, to an afternoon that would end only when
darkness fell. Meekly I followed a now
masterful Betsy down the stairs, and
with
a sinking
heart submitted my almost extinct will to that of
another. There followed the hell of
changing-rooms, as I tried on one unbecoming
garment after another, standing obediently as a
seamstress pinched a too large skirt tightly
at my waist. In a last bid for freedom I
almost shouted,
“
No, I'm sorry, I've
changed my mind,
”
and had time to regret my
rudeness as a disgruntled assistant removed the
offending skirt.
“
I've got plenty of
clothes,
”
I pleaded.
“
I really don't need
any more. Besides, I'm not going anywhere.
”

“
That may be the problem,
”
Betsy said.
“
You ought to find something to do. Mount a plan of
attack.
”

“
I'm actually rather tired,
”
I said.
“
And
it's stuffy in here. Shall we go? We could walk a
bit.
”

I longed for air, for ease of movement. The
horror of being penned in a small space with two
women who saw me as a child waiting to have decisions
made for her was still with me. And I had been rude,
and was ashamed of myself. This was being a terrible day, and
it was probably my fault. I had thought to offer
my patronage in the matter of providing
Betsy's flat with a few amenities, but this offer
had been turned aside, disregarded, as if it were
now beside the point. Favour had been found from
another quarter; there was no longer any need to set
a trap. Not all the re-arrangement in the world could
compare with what had already been enacted.

Out in the air I breathed more easily, although a
feeling of suffocation persisted, as if I were being
swathed in fabric. This was intensified by the damp
mist which pressed against my lips, as if willing
me to silence. Such weather was hard to tolerate in the
light of previous experiences, yet
only yesterday, a day like today, a veiled orange
sun of considerable immanence had manifested itself
behind the greyness. The effect, however, had been far
from reassuring, apocalyptic, rather, as if it
might rain blood, or symbolize a warning, like
the geese in ancient Rome. Yet nothing
terrible had happened; slowly the sun was
eclipsed, or perhaps eclipsed itself, and the shadows
drew on more decisively in its absence. This was
an hour when melancholy was pervasive. But it
is true that at such times one calculates how
many days, weeks, months will have to pass before
summer, calculates how to outwit Christmas,
the year's midnight. In the summer one feels
younger, less burdened; it is easier to be
tolerant, accommodating. I measured the distance
between myself and a putative summer with dread, knowing that
it would put all my powers of endurance to the test.
It was the purest bravado that made me move
to embrace Betsy, as we prepared to go our
separate ways.

“
I'll walk with you a bit,
”
she said.

“
I'm not in a hurry.
”

“
You're not seeing Edmund this evening, then?
”
I asked, tired of my own delicacy.

She blushed.
“
Well, of course not. He'd
only come if ...
”
I had to smile at this
confusion.
“
If he had a message from
Constance,
”
she wound up unconvincingly.
“
I
wouldn't know if he were coming or not. In any case
it would be up to him ...
”

Yes, I might have said. That is the
prerogative of errant lovers, those who trade
on a woman's mistaken patience. How
unlike marriage, I could have told her, when the
presence of the other can be taken for granted, so much
so that one has time and opportunity to devise
one's own escape. The benefits of adultery
are not unlike those of marriage, the greatest of which
is the knowledge that there is someone to come home to. This
advantage, completely unearned, is likely
to give offence to those of a narrower outlook. In this
there could be a large element of envy.

“
Are you all right?
”
I asked kindly,
seeing the blush fade. I should not go down this route
again but for the moment I had succeeded in restoring my
composure.

“
Of course I'm all right. It was you I was
worried about. You hardly ate a thing at
lunch.
”

“
It was my way of protesting against the sort of
food that women are supposed to like. I should have
preferred something coarse, sausages, baked
beans on white toast. Tea in a mug. A
slice of Dundee cake wrapped in
cellophane. An unfiltered cigarette.
”