Death of a Salesperson Read Free Page A

done.’
    â€˜What do they do in the evenings?’
    â€˜Sometimes they have dinner at the Durward, and a dance afterwards. But Thursday nights is not very lively. Mostly they go out. Taxi called from the desk, then off to the Savoy or wherever. She in long dress, hair done, beautifully made-up. My God, she can look a stunner! I don’t wonder he was taken.’
    â€˜You said that she’s in love. Is he?’
    â€˜Oh, I think so. Not a doubt of it. At least until recently . . .’
    â€˜There has been a change?’
    â€˜Well, there has and there hasn’t. On the surface everything has been the same. But they’ve got more serious. Had long conversations in low voices over the tea-table. Once I could see she was distressed—though being a lady, she was always the same to me if I came up to see if there was anything they wanted . . . He wasn’t upset in quite that way, and I put the change down to him trying to wind up the affair—in the nicest possible way. Say what you like, that’s what usually happens when the woman’s the older one. Mind you, thinking back on it, he could have been telling her that his wife was suspicious, and they’d have to go careful for a bit.’
    No, Geoffrey thought; he’d used her, and was giving her the brush-off. He was conceiving an intense dislike for this Roger Michaels, who worked for ICI and had this great store of jokes. What he felt—he told himself with the bleak honesty of someone whose emotional voltage was low—was not jealousy. Or not primarily jealousy. It was indignation on Helen’s behalf. He saw her now as someone who had for years modified her personality to suit the grey, even life which her marriage had offered her, but who had had that other, more daring self waiting to spring out. And when ithad done, she had been used by a thoughtless or heartless man, and then thrown aside.
    â€˜I feel guilty about this,’ said the waiter, standing up and patting his back pocket, ‘but a tenner’s a tenner. I don’t know what the lady who’s paying you is like, but my pair are nice people. And she is a beautiful woman.’
    I never knew I was married to a beautiful woman, thought Geoffrey sadly.
    Next morning the great weight of failure, of lack of understanding, seemed as crushing as ever. Before breakfast he drove to his school. It was like a ghost school, though later, he knew, one of the secretaries would be coming in. He took the L to R volume of the London Telephone Directory from the office and drove home. He spoke to nobody. Still less, now, did he wish to have a heart-to-heart with anyone about his loss.
    Michaels, fortunately, was not a common name. With the data he had on him Geoffrey could make a guess at the sort of area he might live in, and from the handful who had the initial R he struck gold with his second call. It was to the R. Michaels who lived in Grafton Avenue, Surbiton.
    â€˜Could I speak to Mr Michaels, please?’
    â€˜I’m afraid my husband is away at his job from Mondays to Fridays. Can I help?’
    It was a hard, tight little voice, quite neutral in accent.
    â€˜Perhaps you can. I’m with the Economist , and we’re doing a survey of British toy manufacturers—’
    â€˜Oh, my husband got out of that long ago. Nearly two years. He saw the way the wind was blowing. He’s got a very good job with ICI now.’
    â€˜Thank you. That tells me what I want to know. I shan’t need to trouble you again.’
    On an impulse, when he had put the phone down, he looked up the number for ICI and got on to the personnel department.
    â€˜I’m sorry, but Mr Michaels isn’t here at the moment,’ acool, competent voice told him. ‘His main work is with our businesses in the North. He drives up there on Monday mornings, and he only comes in here on Fridays, though I believe he drives down on Thursday