The Invitation(75)

One evening, when we have all had too much to drink, and whilst the men are down on the jetty smoking cigars, Gloria tells me about her husband’s infidelity.

‘Can I be absolutely honest?’

‘Of course.’

‘Part of me prefers it when he has some other piece on the side. He bothers me less. I certainly get a great deal more beauty sleep. Men, and their appetites.’

I am a little taken back by her confession, but also encouraged by it to make one of my own. ‘My husband doesn’t touch me.’

‘Lucky you.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I mean never. He never has.’

Her eyebrows go up. ‘Oh.’

‘I was wondering … well— I wondered if he might be,’ I lower my voice, aware this is something more scandalous than anything we have discussed so far, and also something about which I know little, ‘not interested, in that regard.’

But she is shaking her head, and looking at me, I think, almost pityingly. ‘Oh my dear, no, that isn’t right at all.’

‘I know I shouldn’t say it, but—’

‘No, I mean it really isn’t right. If you must know, he and I had a fling – aeons ago, long before he met you. And I can tell you that he isn’t one of those.’

I plan a confrontation of sorts. A seduction might be a more appropriate word, but I have so little idea of what I am doing that it hardly merits the word. He has been away on business for several days upstate. On the afternoon he is due to return, I take a long bath in the scented oil, which I never normally use, finding its scent too much. I dress myself in the cobweb-fine lace and silks. I look in the mirror. Do I have it, that elusive, specific appeal that Gloria Standish undoubtedly does? I’m not sure.

I try to arrange myself in a way that I presume is seductive, but I am flustered, my heartbeat thudding through me. I do not know why I am so afraid. Perhaps it is the fact that for the first time in a long while, I am attempting something that hasn’t been suggested for me. I listen to him opening doors, no doubt wondering where I am. He says my name, and then again, a little louder. He would never shout, my husband – it would be too undignified. I could call to him but it would ruin the surprise, so I remain quiet, hardly breathing. Finally, the bedroom door opens, and he stands in the frame, looking in. I watch his face.

‘What are you doing?’

Suddenly I feel cold. I could reach for the blanket at the end of the bed, but this would involve exposing myself further.

‘I thought …’ I say, ‘I thought I would surprise you.’

He steps closer to the bed, but I realize his eyes are cast away from me now, as though he can’t bear the sight of me like this.

He cuts me off. ‘Please, get up. Go and put some clothes on. This,’ he gestures in my direction, ‘is not who you are.’

Only now do I begin to understand. This is not the part he has scripted for me. I am his picturesque companion at dinners and social functions, outfitted in the latest fashions. I am virginal, pure.

I slink from the room like a criminal.

But later, he comes to my room. He doesn’t turn on the light. The cover is pulled back, and immediately he is pushing up the silk of my nightgown. I do not know what to expect, but I have always assumed that there must be pleasure in it. Otherwise why would the Standishes go about conducting their various affairs? But apparently there isn’t time for that. And all the time, while I press my face into the pillow, he hisses words in my ear – words I thought men only used for women they detested.

Afterwards, he speaks into my hair, his voice gentle. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘Forgive me. You are so good, and so young. I don’t know what came over me.’

In the morning, it is as though it never happened. He is if anything more attentive. Over breakfast, he suggests we take a trip together. Where would I like to go? Have I ever been skiing? No? He will take me skiing then: we could go to the Colorado mountains. I will love it.

I eat my eggs, and sip my coffee. This is the bargain that I have made. I understand now.





30


In the hall outside, an old clock strikes one o’clock. Hal is lying in bed, turning the compass over in his palm. He has become used to the particular weight and feel of it in his hand. Of late, he has even begun to carry it with him in the pocket of his trousers. Even as it unsettles him, he feels now a connection with it that he wouldn’t be able, even if he tried, to put into words. At some point, he will have to give it back to the Contessa. The idea fills him with a powerful regret.

As for the journal … he is aware that there are only a few pages of writing left. He is reading these last few more slowly. He can’t decide if this is because he wishes to eke them out, because then this peculiar journey will be finished, or because he is apprehensive of what they will contain.

A MONTH HAS passed, and the painting is still not finished. He is beginning to grow impatient. There is a particular expanse of wall that he knows will be perfect for it. The Flemish artist suggests that if he were to come and work on it every day – rather than a couple of times a week – the wait could be shortened. The captain agrees. Often, when he comes to visit Luna, he finds the painter just leaving – having spent a long morning at work on the piece. He has the chaotic look peculiar to men of his ilk, the captain thinks: his hair and clothes in disarray, his face flushed with the exertion of his craft.