The Spider-Orchid Read Free

himself. How the hell did I?
    *
    But of course, he knew the answer. Knew, too, that it was no use blaming Rita. Even this morning—even in those first awful moments of hearing her babbling the glorious news down the telephone before he’d even had his breakfast—even then, he’d recognised that the blame was not hers. Those awful feelings that rose in his gorge as he listened to her ecstatic chatter were his, and his alone. Not her fault at all.
    “Darling, you’ll never guess!” she’d cried excitedly; but of course he’d guessed at once, guessed without any shadow of doubt, taken aback only by the violence of his own dismay. He had no right to be dismayed, absolutely no right at all, he should have been over the moon with joy, because what she was doing was only what he had asked her to do—begged her, indeed—over and over again during the long, happy years when it was impossible. They’d agreed long ago—agreed jointly, and without acrimony or argument —that if only Derek would agree to a divorce, then she’d come and live with Adrian.
    And now, this very day, Derek had agreed. In the first shock of hearing the news, Adrian had felt, for a moment, as if he had been betrayed by his dearest friend.
    Which was ridiculous. He and Derek Langley had only met a couple of time in all these years, both times, naturally, in the role of enemies. In the circumstances, there was no other role open to them.
    Which was a pity, in a way, for Adrian had felt no hostility atall to Derek as a person. In fact, he had rather liked him; the sensation he remembered most clearly from that first encounter had been one of vague, foolish gratitude towards the man for being nearly a decade older than himself, with grey, thinning hair and gold-rimmed bifocals. It had seemed to simplify things; and though, in fact, the assumption was to prove illusory, Adrian still retained in his recollections the pleasant sense of easy superiority it had engendered in him at the time. The ensuing conversation had, in the nature of things, been somewhat prickly and uncomfortable; but Adrian had nevertheless formed a mildly favourable impression of his rival. Derek Langley seemed a quiet, inoffensive sort of man, sensible and well-balanced, and with an intriguingly expert knowledge of wild flowers in Britain. Few subjects could be more remote from Adrian’s own special interests, but all the same, Adrian liked expertise in no matter what sort of field; liked and admired it, and recognised it when he saw it.
    In happier circumstances—or perhaps one should say less dramatic ones—he and Derek could have been friends; but of course in their respective roles of importunate lover and outraged husband, this would never have done.
    The second time they’d met had been some months later, on a grey January afternoon just after Adrian’s own divorce had been successfully completed.
    “But she loves me! You can’t stand in the way of her happiness like this!” Adrian remembered declaiming; and, “Can’t I? Just you watch,” Derek had countered placidly, and had gone on sticking labels on to his colour slides, licking and placing each one in position with careful accuracy.
    “But that’s just possessiveness!” Adrian recalled himself protesting —he remembered that the winter afternoon light was already fading in Derek’s quiet, book-lined study. And Derek had nodded his head thoughtfully, agreeing that Yes, it probably was just possessiveness: he was rather a possessive sort of person, actually.
    *
    It had seemed like deadlock. Adrian had raged, Rita had sobbed, and Derek had gone on preparing his talk for the Annual General Meeting of the West Midlands Botanical Society; and it presently emerged—though when or how such a decision had been reached Adrian could never clearly recall—that Poor Derek mustn’t be upset; he would come round in his own time, but meantime Ritamustn’t do anything nasty to him, like leaving him for another man, or