that your friend Jasmine’s no nearer to it today than she was yesterday, thanks to you.” The opportunity for sarcasm kept his volume down, but Margaret felt the coffee she’d gulped rise sourly in her throat.
“Roger, you can’t mean that—have you gone mad? I told you she changed her mind. I’m glad she changed her mind—”
“So you can spend every spare second of your time fussing and cooing over her like some dumpy Florence Nightingale? It makes me sick. Why should I hang around? Tell me that, Meg, dear—”
“Shut up, Roger. I’ve told you not—”
“—To call you that. It’s her pet name for you. How sweet.” He took a step closer and grabbed her elbow, squeezing it between his fingers. Margaret could smell her soap on his skin, and the herbal shampoo he used on his hair, and see the light glinting off the red-brown patch of stubble he’d missed on his jaw. “Tell me why I should stick around, Margaret,” he spoke softly now, almost whispering, “when you haven’t any time for me, and she could hang on for months?”
Margaret jerked her arm free. “Why don’t you go, then,” she hissed at him, and she felt a distant surprise, as if the words came from somewhere outside herself. “Just bloody well bugger off, all right?”
They faced each other in silence for a long moment, the sound of their breathing audible over the background noise of Radio Four, and then Roger laughed. He lifted his hand and cupped it under Margaret’s chin, tilting her head back. “Is that what you want, love?” Roger leaned closer, his mouth inches from hers. “Because you won’t get it. I’ll leave when I’m good and ready, not before, and don’t you even think about clearing out on me.”
The number eighty-nine bus bounced and rattled its way up the hill through Camden Town. Margaret Bellamy sat in the forward seat on the upper deck, her bulging shopping bag placed beside her as a bastion against intruders.
She needn’t have worried. The only other occupant to venture climbing the stairs was a toothless old man absorbed in a racing paper. The seat’s cracked upholstery stank of cigarette smoke and exhaust fumes, but Margaret found the familiar odor comforting. She gnawed her knuckle, the latest in a series of displacement behaviors designed to prevent her from biting her nails. An infantile habit, Jasmine called it. Jasmine …
Margaret’s thoughts veered away, jumping to another tracklike a needle skipping on an old phonograph. She’d had to get out of the office, even if Mrs. Washburn had given her that fishy-eyed stare and said “Dentist again?”
“Bitch,” Margaret said aloud, then looked around to see if the smelly old man had heard her. And what if he had, she asked herself? It seemed like she’d spent her whole life trying not to offend anybody, and it had landed her in an awful bloody mess.
She should have told Jasmine about Roger, that was her first mistake. But when he’d first started asking her out she hadn’t quite believed it herself, and didn’t want to risk the humiliation if he dropped her as quickly as he’d picked her up. Afterwards, the right moment never seemed to materialize, and the guilt she felt for keeping it secret compounded her embarrassment. She rehearsed all sorts of “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you” scenarios, and finally remained silent.
Actually, Roger hadn’t really taken her out. Looking back on it, she saw that he merely had provided his presence and attention while she paid for almost everything. A small price it seemed at the time, to bask in the glow of Roger’s looks, his connections, his air of knowing all the right people and the right places.
Still, it had been a small error of vanity, a forgivable mistake. The ones she had made since were not dismissed so easily. She never should have told Roger what Jasmine had asked her to do. And she never should have told him about the money.
The bus shuddered to a stop at
“Roger, you can’t mean that—have you gone mad? I told you she changed her mind. I’m glad she changed her mind—”
“So you can spend every spare second of your time fussing and cooing over her like some dumpy Florence Nightingale? It makes me sick. Why should I hang around? Tell me that, Meg, dear—”
“Shut up, Roger. I’ve told you not—”
“—To call you that. It’s her pet name for you. How sweet.” He took a step closer and grabbed her elbow, squeezing it between his fingers. Margaret could smell her soap on his skin, and the herbal shampoo he used on his hair, and see the light glinting off the red-brown patch of stubble he’d missed on his jaw. “Tell me why I should stick around, Margaret,” he spoke softly now, almost whispering, “when you haven’t any time for me, and she could hang on for months?”
Margaret jerked her arm free. “Why don’t you go, then,” she hissed at him, and she felt a distant surprise, as if the words came from somewhere outside herself. “Just bloody well bugger off, all right?”
They faced each other in silence for a long moment, the sound of their breathing audible over the background noise of Radio Four, and then Roger laughed. He lifted his hand and cupped it under Margaret’s chin, tilting her head back. “Is that what you want, love?” Roger leaned closer, his mouth inches from hers. “Because you won’t get it. I’ll leave when I’m good and ready, not before, and don’t you even think about clearing out on me.”
The number eighty-nine bus bounced and rattled its way up the hill through Camden Town. Margaret Bellamy sat in the forward seat on the upper deck, her bulging shopping bag placed beside her as a bastion against intruders.
She needn’t have worried. The only other occupant to venture climbing the stairs was a toothless old man absorbed in a racing paper. The seat’s cracked upholstery stank of cigarette smoke and exhaust fumes, but Margaret found the familiar odor comforting. She gnawed her knuckle, the latest in a series of displacement behaviors designed to prevent her from biting her nails. An infantile habit, Jasmine called it. Jasmine …
Margaret’s thoughts veered away, jumping to another tracklike a needle skipping on an old phonograph. She’d had to get out of the office, even if Mrs. Washburn had given her that fishy-eyed stare and said “Dentist again?”
“Bitch,” Margaret said aloud, then looked around to see if the smelly old man had heard her. And what if he had, she asked herself? It seemed like she’d spent her whole life trying not to offend anybody, and it had landed her in an awful bloody mess.
She should have told Jasmine about Roger, that was her first mistake. But when he’d first started asking her out she hadn’t quite believed it herself, and didn’t want to risk the humiliation if he dropped her as quickly as he’d picked her up. Afterwards, the right moment never seemed to materialize, and the guilt she felt for keeping it secret compounded her embarrassment. She rehearsed all sorts of “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you” scenarios, and finally remained silent.
Actually, Roger hadn’t really taken her out. Looking back on it, she saw that he merely had provided his presence and attention while she paid for almost everything. A small price it seemed at the time, to bask in the glow of Roger’s looks, his connections, his air of knowing all the right people and the right places.
Still, it had been a small error of vanity, a forgivable mistake. The ones she had made since were not dismissed so easily. She never should have told Roger what Jasmine had asked her to do. And she never should have told him about the money.
The bus shuddered to a stop at
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