THIRTY-TWO
Even though Peter Pryor was early for the noon flight, it was a long queue, there were many noisy children, his knee ached and he wanted to sit down. Worse, despite flying business class, he was forced to queue here. Security alert, they told him. And that was that. At least it was a pleasing environment to hang around in. Norman Foster had used the Stansted site well – better and more bravely, thought Peter, than he might have done. He would not have taken such risks. If he had a flaw, it was that he was too cautious, too restrained. When he saw the Gaudi in Barcelona, for example, he just felt sick. Cautious restraint was not what was required fin de siècle. Cautious restraint, fin de siècle, did not light up the sky. Cautious restraint, he thought sourly, was certainly not a concept embraced by his ex-wife. Very fin de siècle she was, very. . .
He stood there, looking around admiringly. It soothed the savage breast; made savage, he reminded himself, by Pam having turned him down. Looking back, he had been made a fool of. That underwear? He nearly bit his fist with the humiliation. We do not love each other, was the way she put it. We would both be unhappy all over again. He did not even bother to ask what that meant. After all, neither of them was a spring chicken.
He stared down the long, elegant lines of the building. Sir Norman might have got this commission, but he had not got Brigham. Peter straightened, despite his knee, feeling a little spurt of pride. And then the sourness descended again. Pamela. Pamela being wilful. Oh, she deigned to consider – only consider, mind you – coming on board for the Cambridge project – as a partner – but she was not prepared to consider coming on board in the manner of a wife. And he could not withdraw the Brigham College offer, because he needed her. It was all very frustrating and he found himself enjoyably imagining the sticking of pins into images of Mary Wollstonecraft and Sidney and Beatrice Webb.
How could he have let a couple of doddery old bats put him in the position? Fear, probably. Fear of ending up like them. Alone. He did not have Pam’s touching faith in Daniel.
The queue moved up. He shuffled with it. Going to Dublin – even alone – was better than staying in London. The hotel could take the strain. He was certainly glad to turn his back on those black and white squares. We do not love each other . . . how many people of their age did? He looked at his watch and tutted.
The man in front of him also looked at his watch, and also tutted. Even in the blur of failing eyesight, Peter saw it was a very special timepiece. Thin steel, almost not there, just the kind of thing he liked. The man noticed him looking. His taciturn expression lifted slightly to politeness. He also looked vaguely familiar.
‘Swiss,’ he said. And held out his wrist.
Embarrassed, Peter said, ‘Very nice.’ Then he indicated the people ahead of them. ‘Interminable.’
They both scrutinized each other for a moment.
‘I’m sure I –’ they both began.
And then Peter remembered. This was the man who came with his sister to Pamela’s shop.
‘We met briefly. Your sister was looking for curtaining?’
Douglas remembered. Oddball. Dressed like a refugee from the thirties’ Riviera. He looked considerably more civilized today. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Sorry. I was a bit caught up. Didn’t recognize you without the roses . . .’ He did his best to sound bright.
Peter ignored the joke.
They both stared at the roof space, searching for something more to say.
Peter was not going to break the silence. Following on from thoughts of satin underwear, the memory of playing pass the parcel with the roses was the more raw.
Eventually Douglas said, as airily as he could, ‘I believe she’s rather good.’
‘Who?’
‘The woman who runs it.’
‘Pamela,’ said Peter.
‘That’s it. My sister was very pleased.’
‘Not my sort of thing.’
‘Nor mine,’ said Douglas.
There was another silence.
Eventually Peter said, ‘They were just to say thank you.’
‘Ah,’ said Douglas, thinking, What were?
‘The roses,’ added Peter. And then he gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘You know women. They like that sort of thing.’
Douglas had the briefest suspicion. ‘Have you known her long?’
Peter nodded. ‘Years. She’s a useful contact. And you?’
Douglas said, ‘Quite a long time. Off and on.’
‘Well?’ asked Peter as lightly as he could. He, too, harboured a suspicion.
Douglas shrugged. ‘Not really, no.’ He paused, thinking that was bloody true. ‘She’s more my sister’s friend really.’ He enjoyed saying that. It was a tiny, harmless revenge for the hurt she caused him.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Peter, implying the two of them probably constituted a coven.
They both laughed. The queue moved on.
‘I’m hoping she’ll do a little job for me, you see,’ said Peter.
Douglas nodded.
‘And she’s being difficult. Hence the roses.’
‘She is difficult,’ said Douglas. ‘Very.’
‘Very.’ Peter nodded as the queue moved up. ‘You use her, too, then?’
‘Occasionally,’ said Douglas.
Peter was about to ask more when a child came running between their legs and round their luggage, diverting them both. Peter sent her away and glared at her parents.
‘I’m business class,’ said Douglas, ‘but they seem to have lumped us all together.’
‘Me too.’
Peter looked about him, at the piles of bags and suitcases ahead, the harassed parents, the running, shrieking children, and the general air of confusion.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said feelingly, ‘that I wouldn’t prefer to risk being blown up.’
Douglas nodded. ‘No discipline. It’s the kids first every time.’
He said this so vehemently that Peter was startled. ‘My son never behaved like that,’ he said quickly. ‘Or at least, not when he was with me. What he did when he was with his mother, of course, I couldn’t say.’
‘My girlfriend has dumped me for her son this Christmas.’ Oh, shit, thought Douglas, it was out before he could stop himself. Why, oh why, did I open my mouth?
Peter gave a little half-smile and looked away. ‘Oh,’ he said.
Disturbed by the sudden intimacy, they lapsed into silence.
Peter realized something was required. He went for neutral. ‘How old is the boy?’ he asked. ‘Makes a difference.’
Douglas gave a derisive snort. ‘He’s twenty-two and she’s still putting him first.’
‘My ex wouldn’t do that. She’s the complete opposite,’ said Peter. ‘Can’t shrug off the family quick enough. Booted me out when she’d had enough. And now our son’s left home, she doesn’t want anything more to do with me.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Or very little. Different when the maintenance was paid. Got no lever with her now. She always put her career above us.’
‘Mine just let hers go. As soon as the boy came along. Ended up working in a shop.’
‘Something to be said for knowing your limitations,’ said Peter. ‘Women must learn to walk before they can run.’
‘I could do with a drink,’ said Douglas.
‘So could I,’ said Peter.
The queue went slowly on.
Peter said, ‘She was supposed to come on this trip. I thought we were trying for a reconciliation, but she changed her mind. Let me down at the last moment. No explanation to speak of – something about love. Love . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Whatever that is.’
‘You’ve been dumped, too, then?’ Douglas felt a sense of relief.
‘And how. Tickets, hotel – the lot.’
The ensuing silence was uncomfortable.
‘They’re an odd bunch,’ said Peter.
‘I don’t think they know what they really want,’ said Douglas. ‘One minute they’re throwing themselves at you – the next you say something harmless, and they’re off. . . Fickle? Or what?
‘Unpredictable. One minute you think you know where you are, the next they’ve shot off without so much as a by your leave.’
‘I don’t even know where mine is.’ Douglas tapped the side of his bag with his heel. ‘She didn’t even bother to tell me that.’
‘Nor do I,’ said Peter. ‘And she hasn’t told her mother – who is frail and elderly in an old folk’s home –’ He paused to let this sink in. ‘And she hasn’t told our son . . . Completely irresponsible. Just gone off.’
‘Sounds the exact opposite of mine. She’d probably bring the son and the mother along on her honeymoon.’ He gave a bitter laugh.
Peter felt himself growing hotter and hotter with rage as he thought of Pamela out there, somewhere, careless of his needs. Free. Independent. And, what was worse, healthier than he was. ‘Just fucked off. Nearly fifty and acting like a juvenile.’
‘I don’t think age has got anything to do with it,’ said Douglas. ‘Mine’s not young.’ He paused, and then added, ‘I think that was part of the problem. If she’d been younger –’ he was almost talking to himself – ‘then she wouldn’t have been so rigid. No wonder most of my colleagues have gone for the younger model. They’re easier.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Peter. ‘I had a younger one. Wouldn’t have sex for a month because I didn’t take her to the Academy Dinner.’ He closed his eyes at the memory. ‘Half her hair was green, for God’s sake.’
There was a suitable pause for the grossness.
‘I mean,’ said Peter, with feeling, ‘how could she think she looked appealing with green hair?’ He shook his head. ‘And boots,’ he added faintly. ‘Boots!’
‘A friend of mine has just married a Filipino,’ said Douglas.
‘I can understand why,’ said Peter. ‘A proper wife would be very nice for a change. Indian women are very beautiful.’ He looked around thoughtfully. There were several Indian women doing menial chores.
They became silent again, aware of the depth of the confidences they now shared, and needing to retreat a little.
Douglas was relieved at the silence. What he really wanted was to get drunk, very quietly, on the plane, fall into the hotel, and sleep the Season away. There was no point in trying to call her. She was not there. He stopped at the house on the way here and a neighbour, looking like something out of a New York police series, shook his head and glowered until he backed off down the path. He had never felt so disappointed. And the disappointment led to humiliation, which in turn led to a very real anger. He could not believe any of it. Why, when it was all still so good? Everything he planned for that first night went so perfectly. And then her note arrived saying no, and he was dumbfounded. He did not understand. You separate, you come back together and find each other again. And then you separate again? When the very barrier to happiness in the past has been removed? Daniel. He said all that when he finally managed to see her. And she said, Leopards never change their spots, which applied to them both. And was clear as mud. She would not see him again after that.
He could not even tell Zoe. He was too humiliated. I do not want your fucking son, he had yelled across the crowded pavement at her, I just want you. She turned her back and she walked away.
He wanted some peace. It was only thanks to Lionel that he got away on his own. Lionel, lamb to the slaughter, filled the breach. Zoe just said, ‘Oh, go on, then, I’ll have to make do with him.’ Zoe and he would continue to move in and out of Lionels and girls in red suits for the rest of their lives. Well – it was a better prospect than feeling helpless and angry like this. If that was love, you could keep it. Douglas said to her that he thought love, as she called it, was supposed to be accommodating. She just kept on walking, didn’t turn round. And he realized that her talk of independence and liberation was just a cover for selfishness.
Peter eyed the queue ahead of them. ‘Only a few more to go. Looks like the flight’s going to be full. Not surprised. Christmas in London.’ He shrugged.
‘I know,’ said Douglas. ‘I’m usually in Barbados.’
They both stared around – up at the roof; down at the floor; over to where the cleaners and baggage staff made their slow, gladiatorial progress in chariots; across to the wide glass windows of the real world beyond. Then Douglas said, as casually as he could, ‘Where do you stay? In Dublin.’
‘At the Sheldonian.’
‘Ah.’
‘And you?’
‘The Old Judge’s House. They’ve refurbished it.’
Peter said, without thinking, ‘That’s where we honeymooned.’
‘Really?’ said Douglas politely.
Peter nodded. ‘It used to be a really nice old Georgian building.’
‘I think they’ve done it carefully.’
‘Might come and have a look.’
‘Do,’ said Douglas. ‘Come and have a drink.’
‘You might even be in the same room.’
They laughed.
‘It’s where our son was conceived,’ said Peter.
Douglas said, ‘Oh, really?’ Politely.
‘She was very different in those days,’ said Peter. ‘You know – cared about what I did. No question then about who should work and who should stay at home.’
‘They soon change,’ said Douglas.
‘They do,’ Peter agreed.
Eventually they reached the desk without much more talking between them. Peter’s seat was dealt with first. For some reason, largely to do with neither of them quite knowing how to gainsay it, they were given seats next to each other.
‘Terrific,’ said Douglas firmly, as they wandered away together.
‘Yes,’ said Peter faintly.
A young man was causing some trouble at one of the other desks. An Irish accent and insisting that he must have a seat, although he was late for check-in. The flight was full.
‘Then I’ll have an upgrade,’ he said.
The two of them stood watching, for something to do, and were both of the opinion it was a bit thick to see that the youngster got his upgrade to business class. It was easy to see why – which was even more irritating. The girl on the desk just stared up at the persuasive young man, and he leaned forward and dropped his voice low. His eyelashes almost swept the floor and he had the sparkling white smile of a toothpaste advertisement. Within a few seconds he was whistling on his way. Well, not exactly whistling, Peter was pleased to see – looking somewhat dejected.
Par for the course, thought Peter. Why not? It was bloody Christmas. Miserable time of year. Upgrade. Damn cheek, really, considering how much he and the rest of them had paid for the full price of a ticket.
Douglas agreed.
The drama over, and nothing left to do but walk across to departures together, they passed through security, each one feeling uncomfortable, and then Douglas saved the day by saying, ‘Just going to have a look round,’ and escaping.
‘Fuck, fuck and more fuck,’ he said under his breath. He supposed he could get the seat changed but that would look churlish. He was stuck with sitting next to the man and probably chatting all the way.
He spent the next hour wandering aimlessly around the shops, pretending to study the transient, peripheral items on display – handbags, scarves, perfumes, watches – and thinking that if she were here with him he would like to buy her something. And then thinking, again, how she had hurt him, and feeling the emptiness in his heart once more. Zoe had a point. Get them before they got you.
When the flight was called, he went to the back of the queue. It was only a short flight. That was a blessing.
Peter Pryor sat pretending to read the newspaper, relieved that his new-found seat companion had gone to the Duty Free. He was not looking forward to the flight and having to talk. And then, to crown it all, the young Irishman, the upgrade, sat down opposite him in the departure lounge and began reading. Peter peered, screwed up his eyes, tried to focus on the book’s title. It was the same with someone else’s newspaper – overpowering curiosity. Irritatingly, the youngster noticed, leaned forward, and said, sorrowfully more than rudely, ‘It’s called In Praise of Older Women,’ and went back to reading again, deeply engrossed.
Peter felt himself go bright red. To cover it, he said jokily, ‘I should stick to your own age if I were you. They get worse as they get older.’
The young man looked at him coldly. ‘Maybe,’ he said. And went back to the book.
Dean put the book aside. There was only one older woman he felt like praising at the moment and that was his mother. At least she never let him down. She was waiting there with all the family – ready to reward him with her affection. Real affection. Not like Pamela the last time he saw her. When he went to plead with her she stroked his hair and touched his cheek and showed him tears (real, were they?) as she said that no, she would not come. That he must find someone of his own age, that she had been wrong to even think they could take up again. Not acting responsibly, was what she said of herself, acting crazily; it could not be.
He said, ‘That is what life is about: impulse, follow your heart, all that.’
And she said, ‘You forget that I have a son, and I would not want him to bring me home. I would not wish this on him, and I will not bring it on you now.’
‘Come with me,’ he shouted.
And then Pamela also got angry. ‘To arrive in your mother’s kitchen and present myself as your girlfriend? The one who needs cookery lessons? Can you imagine that scene, Dean Close? To come to your flat and meet your friends? Can you see me there? At parties?’
‘You should never have started it, then.’
‘I know.’
He waited for her to say that he had started it. To throw that back at him. But she did not. She just sat there looking down at her hands. They were both in tears. And she said, ‘Better now than in ten years’ time. You will want to leave me eventually. I will never feel secure. It will not work. Ten years between us, fifteen years, maybe. But not twenty. No.’
‘You cannot know that.’
‘It was always for the moment.’
‘But you came back.’
‘I just took a drive,’ she said. ‘And I am sorry.’
‘Men do it,’ he said defiantly. ‘My oldest brother married a girl from Wicklow and she’s younger than me. They’ve a dozen years between them.’
‘It is different.’
‘It is no different.’
‘It is called biology. We are arranged to protect it. And it is different.’
‘I’ve no interest in babies,’ he said. ‘I want you.’
‘Dean,’ she said, ‘if you were my great passion, if I felt I could not live without you, then I would let the world talk and go hang, and be with you. But it is not like that. And it only feels that it is like that for you, for now.’
‘For always.’
‘No. One day you will want all those other things. You will.’
‘And anyway, there are ways. If I ever did.’
‘Dean,’ she said, suddenly the schoolmarm. ‘I do not want any more babies. I do not want to be a mother again. I don’t even want to have responsibilities. I want my freedom.’
‘That is so selfish.’
‘It’s reality.’
‘Then you don’t love me?’
‘I loved our time together. I am sadder at losing you than I am at losing anyone.’ She held him. ‘Dean,’ she said, ‘you were the best and the most generous in love. Don’t lose that, because it’s the future.’
‘Piss on the future,’ he said.
‘You won’t,’ she said. ‘You mustn’t.’
And then she called a cab for him. His last act, done with dignity, was to refuse to let her pay the cab driver in advance. He was driven off into the night and he did not look behind again, once. Fuck the world.
At the restaurant they were pleased with him. He learned and he was quick and he did it all in defiance of the pain. If he was beating eggs, he would beat them as if they were Pamela, beat, beat, beat. But he knew he did not mean it. Not really. Somewhere inside himself he felt he was growing. The job felt good. They had a few good sessions after the restaurant closed. He flirted with one of the girls in the kitchen. He began to have the shadowiest feeling that Pamela might have been right. As Christmas approached and he thought about seeing his family again, he was aware that he would have dreaded their response. Nevertheless, he would have done it. He was proud of being with her, proud of how much she knew, proud of the things he had learned with her. You wouldn’t get that with the girl in the kitchen.
He said that to Deirdre, who drove him to the airport. He knew he would never love again and he said that, too. You might, she said. That was all. In his pocket was a small parcel she gave him as he said goodbye. He opened it now, shielding it from the nosy bloke opposite – Dean did not see why he should share the opening of the box with him as well. So he turned away to lift its lid and out tumbled a silver crucifix on a chain. He sighed. A good, kind, Catholic girl. Well – not that good. But his mother would approve. Not that he had any intention of giving her the chance. Never again, he vowed, dangling the chain. Nevertheless, he put it carefully back in its box.
And then the flight was called.
Thank God, thought each of the three men.