A Quiet Life(99)

There was a pause in which Laura could feel people shying away from what he had said, and then Joe tried to fill the silence, telling Edward that he mustn’t be surprised if people flirted with Laura. Edward mumbled something, and then took a step forward, tripped and lurched over onto his face.

For a moment there was silence, and then all was scurrying, embarrassing motion as Joe and Kit came to his aid, pulling him upright again. ‘Come on, Edward,’ said Joe. ‘Let’s get you back to the house.’

Laura got up, offering to help, and she and Joe half dragged, half supported Edward through the dunes and along the stone path in the dusky lawn back up to the house. All the way he was breathing hard, and suddenly he said, ‘You’re not such a bad man really, Joe, but come the revolution you’ll be up against the wall, and I’ll be sorry – Laura will be sorry too, you know – sorry,’ and then he stopped and vomited, and then they went on again. Joe pulled and pushed him up the stairs to the bedroom and together they laid him on the bed. Laura took his shoes off. He was asleep already. When Laura thanked Joe, her voice sounded shakier than she expected.

‘Don’t take it too much to heart – everyone can let off steam now and again,’ Joe said. ‘I’m more than tipsy myself tonight. He’ll feel like hell in the morning, though – we all will.’

Not quite knowing what she was doing, Laura touched his arm. There was a shudder of warmth in the touch. Did it come from Edward’s assumption, or had it been there all along, had it been there for nine years? No, that was ridiculous. Joe did not react at first, and then he put his hand on Laura’s wrist, moving his fingers on the skin of her inside arm. For a moment Laura was lost in the heat of the sensation, and possibility flamed, a path never taken opened before her, and then they both, as if by mutual consent, turned away from one another. When he was gone, Laura pulled off her dress and lay there on the bed, next to her unconscious husband. The breeze from the sea came in through the open window and moved over her naked body.





6


In the warmth of the hairdressers, Gervase’s fingers were dry on the nape of Laura’s neck as he put in the curlers. ‘You are going out tonight?’ he asked, looking at her in the mirror.

‘No, not tonight – just wanted to look nice for my husband.’

‘He’s a lucky man,’ Gervase said automatically. Laura saw Mrs Rostov come in. She had left the bag, as she always did, on the floor in the waiting area, and she saw Mrs Rostov sit down next to it. ‘We’re ready for you now, Madam,’ said one of the assistants, but Mrs Rostov shook her head. ‘Wait one minute, bring me a cup of tea, I’m tired out.’ As she waited, she put her bag down next to Laura’s, and then stood up holding the other bag. They were so accustomed to the exchange now, but always it was an effort for Laura to keep her eyes on her magazine or her reflection rather than following Mrs Rostov’s movements with her gaze.

Gervase set the big bubble dryer, and she looked at her magazine. The words danced up and down in front of her eyes; she was tired. Edward had been out all night, coming home reeking of drink just before dawn. When she heard his step in the room, she had asked him where he had been. ‘Getting away from it all,’ he had said, and rolled onto the floor and fallen asleep there in his clothes. When the alarm went off a couple of hours later, Laura had to rouse him and push him to take a shower, to wash away the smell of stale spirits. Going into the bathroom after him, she noted that he had missed the lavatory when he had urinated, and balling up a wad of toilet paper she had wiped the floor.

‘This can’t go on forever, you know,’ she had said to him over breakfast, looking into his bloodshot eyes, ‘you’re killing yourself with drink.’

‘It won’t go on forever, though, will it? Did you see his sentence?’

Laura knew that Edward was referring to Alger Hiss, whose trial had ended the day before, but she couldn’t let him dwell on it. The thought that any of their handlers might also turn out to be a turncoat was too destabilising. It was better not to talk about it.

‘He did it for his children, for his God,’ said Edward, holding one hand with the other, to stop them trembling.

‘Who?’

‘The man who betrayed him. He said that even though communism will win in the end, it’s better to die on the losing side than to live under the spiritual night of communism. Do you think Alex ever thinks that?’

‘Of course he doesn’t, he’s Russian himself, isn’t he?’

‘Is he? He sounds American to me.’

Laura knew it was time to end the conversation. She told him to pull himself together, that he was late for work. He mumbled something about how he was indeed late, for the important discussions about better ways to kill one another. ‘I mustn’t miss them, they could be useful.’

‘You know it is useful; I know it is. Here are the papers from the day before yesterday.’ Laura was putting the copies into the black bag and brushing her hair as she spoke.

‘Look at you, so clean and sure,’ said Edward, and moved towards her to give her a kiss before he went. It was a while since they had embraced, and she put one hand on his cheek and stroked it. How dry the skin felt now, how bitter it smelled, the skin of a sleepless alcoholic. Laura remembered it now, under her fingers as she sat in the hairdresser, and, looking into her face in the mirror, she lifted her hand to touch her own face. In the mirror she caught Mrs Rostov’s gaze very briefly, but did not engage.