The Paying Guests(51)
His voice jarred on Frances now. He was like a boy with a whip, trying to keep up the boisterous motion of the game. But the game seemed to be turning against him. The whole evening was turning, breaking apart on sour currents in a way she didn’t quite understand.
Lilian worked the spinner in silence. The number took her to a ladder; her counter went up it to an empty square. Then it was Frances’s turn, then Leonard’s, then Lilian’s again – the game running on without incident, though at every spin Leonard tensed, then gasped or groaned or clapped his hands to his head, like a Regency buck at the card-table watching his gold, his horse, his country estate, his entire fortune, melt away.
Then Frances’s turn came round again, and, drunk as she was, she saw at once that the number she had spun carried her counter to a square with a heart drawn on it. She said quickly, ‘I muddled that one. I’m going to spin again.’
Leonard, however, was quicker. ‘No second spins! That’s in the rules too.’ He picked up her man and moved it for her: ‘… three, four, five. Aha! Another heart! Perhaps I shall get my pair of stockings after all. What do you say, Frances?’
Lilian had drawn up her knees, and had bowed her head to meet them. Her voice was muffled by the fabric of her skirt. ‘I don’t want to play any more. You’re ganging up on me! It’s not fair!’
‘Come on!’ he cried. ‘We’re waiting. You can’t welch on us now.’
‘I don’t want to play!’ She wailed it, and when she lifted her head her face was puffed and blurry, almost ugly. She spoke like a child. ‘I’m tired. I feel giddy. You’ve made me drink too much. You always do.’
‘I like that!’ he answered. ‘There’s you and Frances been putting it away like a right pair of sozzlers —’
Oh, shut up! thought Frances. She felt really unwell suddenly. She had changed her pose, put a hand to the floor, and found that the floor wasn’t quite where it ought to have been. She said, ‘It’s late, isn’t it? What time is it?’
‘It’s time for Lilian to get cracking!’
‘I need my bed. I feel dreadful.’
‘You need a bit more gin, that’s all. Come on, Frances. I thought you were enjoying it. Don’t you want to see the show?’
She gazed at him in muzzy disbelief. What on earth was she doing here? She knew that her room was close by, just on the other side of the wall, but she had a panicky feeling that she was far from home, among strangers. And was that a noise downstairs, a door opening and closing? She began to rise, saying, ‘Oh, God, I need to go to bed.’
He put out his hand to her. ‘Don’t do that.’ He actually gripped her, hotly, on the ankle. ‘You’re spoiling the game!’
The surprise of his touch sobered her slightly. She twisted her foot out of his grasp, then leaned unsteadily to the board. Taking hold of his wooden counter she slid it to the final square.
‘There. You’ve won. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’
He looked sulky – or mock-sulky. She couldn’t tell now.
‘Well, it’s no fun like that.’
‘Hard luck. I’m tired. So’s Lilian.’
‘Oh, Lilian isn’t tired. It’s just a thing she likes to say.’ He added quietly, turning his head, ‘She’ll probably say it again later. She won’t mean it then, either.’
There was a silence after his words. He looked at his wife and said, ‘What? Oh, Frances doesn’t mind.’ The sulkiness had disappeared. He leaned back on his elbows and grinned up at Frances, all his crowded teeth on display. ‘Frances is a woman of the world – aren’t you, Frances?’
She was trying to straighten her frock. She said, without smiling, ‘I might have been once.’
He answered quickly, ‘Just the once? Still, once is all it takes – unfortunately. Ask Lil.’
His tone was so unpleasant now that, gazing down at his face, Frances had the urge, shockingly powerful, to kick him in it. Instead she turned away and began to work her feet into her shoes. ‘Whoops!’ he said, when she swayed. But it was Lilian who rose to help her. She came across the rug, her own step far from steady, her face as pinkly mottled as a plate of ham, her skirt creased like a concertina above her mismatched feet and ankles. But she offered her hand for Frances to grip; and when she spoke, her voice was kind, tired, her own.
‘I’m sorry, Frances.’
Frances saw the clock at last: it was a few minutes to midnight. Holding tight on to Lilian’s hand she was filled with a vision, a sad mirage, of the simple, pleasant few hours that the two of them, in a different world, a different life, might have spent together. Instead – what had they done? They had squandered those hours on Leonard. She hadn’t so much as gazed honestly into Lilian’s face until this moment. Instead she had cajoled and bullied her – had clapped and cheered while she took off her clothes! And she had done it, she realised now, out of some mean, malicious impulse – siding against her with her husband, in order to punish her for being his wife.
She couldn’t communicate any of this to Lilian. Shaking her head she said simply, ‘I’m sorry, too.’ She regained her balance; and Lilian’s fingers slid out of hers.
Leonard got to his feet to escort her across the room. ‘At least you haven’t got far to go,’ he said, palely humorous, as he opened the door for her. His manner had changed again. She went to step past him and he moved closer, approaching her with such intent that she thought for a moment that he might be about to kiss her. But what he did was to touch her arm, just above the elbow.