The Paying Guests(85)

Lilian was still for a second, then rolled away from her. ‘Oh, Frances, don’t ask me. I don’t want to think about him when I’m with you. The things I do with him – There was love in it once, at the start. But it’s never been like it is with you. With you, it’s all of me. With him —’

‘How often do you do it?’

‘Don’t ask me, Frances.’ She put a hand across her eyes.

‘I’d rather know than not know, that’s all. How often?’

She answered uncomfortably. ‘I don’t know. Not so often any more. He knows I don’t want to.’

‘He knows you don’t want to, yet he still makes you do it? What is he? – a brute?’

‘It isn’t like that.’

‘You do want it, then.’

‘No! I hate it. You don’t understand. You don’t know what it’s like to be married. If I didn’t let him, ever – It’s different for men. If I stopped letting him he’d want to know why, he’d pester me, he’d make scenes. He might get suspicious. It would make things harder for you and me. He already wonders why you want to see so much of me.’

The thought made Frances feel ill. ‘It seems… obscene,’ she said. ‘People like me get called obscene, but – You might as well charge him by the hour. At least that would be being honest about it.’

Lilian rolled back to her. ‘Oh, please don’t spoil things. It’s been so lovely. It’s been perfect. Hasn’t it been perfect for you?’

‘Yes,’ Frances admitted, ‘it has. But —’

‘But what?’

‘Well, it’s been perfect in the way that something’s perfect when it’s under a glass dome, or trapped in amber. We do nothing but embrace. We do nothing but lie in rooms with the curtains closed, like this.’

‘But how could we ever do anything else?’

‘When we talk, we talk nonsense. Of flying carpets. Of gipsy queens. You mean more to me than that. I don’t want a make-believe life with you. I want – I don’t know what I want. I almost wish I were a man. I’ve never wished it before. But if I were a man I could take you dancing, take you to supper —’

‘If you were a man,’ said Lilian, ‘you wouldn’t be able to do any of that. Len would hear of it, and come and fight you. People would say all sorts of things against me. You don’t want to be a man, do you? I wouldn’t love you if you were. You wouldn’t be you, then. Dancing and suppers – what do they matter? I’ve done them over and over, and they mean nothing. This means something.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘It means we’re in love.’

‘But tonight you’ll lie with him, and I’ll be here, thinking of you doing it. I mind it more and more. I didn’t, at first. Or I told myself that I didn’t. Don’t you mind it, too?’

Lilian lowered her gaze. When she answered, it was in a queer, dead tone that Frances had never heard her use before. ‘I mind it every minute.’

‘Then why not… leave him?’

She looked up. ‘What?’

‘Just walk away from him.’

‘Oh, Frances, how could I do that?’

‘Are you in love with him?’

‘You know I’m not.’

‘Then make an end of it.’

‘Stop it, Frances. Where would I go? How would I live?’

‘You might… live with me.’

Neither of them had ever suggested such a thing before, and Lilian looked startled. But at once, her expression changed. ‘Oh, wouldn’t it be wonderful!’

‘No,’ said Frances, catching hold of her, ‘don’t say it like that. As if it’s another fairy tale. Why shouldn’t we live together? We could find a flat, like Christina and Stevie’s. We could take a room, just one room —’ She could see the room already. She could see the two of them inside it, and herself locking the door. ‘We could pig it, go naked, live on bread and scrape if we had to. Why shouldn’t we?’

‘But Len would never let me.’

‘How could he stop you?’

‘And what about your mother?’

‘I don’t know. But there must be a way. Mustn’t there? If we really wanted it?’

Their hearts had begun to thud again. They looked at each other, and for a second they seemed on the verge of some dizzying plunge or leap.

But then Lilian closed her eyes and spoke lightly and longingly. ‘Oh, but wouldn’t it be lovely! We could have a wedding night! My proper wedding night was awful. There seemed no point in going to a hotel or anything like that. We went straight to Cheveney Avenue; you could hear Len’s parents through the walls. Len kept whistling “At Trinity Church I Met My Doom”. He whistled it so much he made me cry. He said he was sorry afterwards, but – Ours wouldn’t be like that, would it? Where would we have it? Paris! An artist’s attic, looking over the rooftops!’

In other words, thought Frances, they were back in the realm of fantasy, and might just as well be talking about gipsy caravans. She felt a surge of relief, disappointment – she wasn’t sure what the feeling was. But with an effort, she let it go. They lay together a little longer, until it was time for them to rise, and dress, and return to their chores.