Altered States (10 page)

‘You’re very quiet,’ said Angela, who now seemed to me to be permanently at my elbow. ‘Is there anyone you want to meet? Not that I know everyone. But doesn’t Sarah do these things well? I think it’s a success, don’t you?’

She seemed anxious for it to be a success, as if it were her own party. Perhaps she had been invited to think, or had merely assumed, that this was a joint affair, that it was her natural role to provide for the guests, in the vain hope that they would pay her some attention. If she had thought that, she was disappointed, although her disappointment was disguised by a hectic flush and a mask of fearful animation. She seemed as out of place as I felt. It occurred to me to ask her what the connection was between Sarah and herself.

‘We were at school together,’ she said. ‘I’ve known her all my life.’

In which case, I reflected, it was a friendship doomed to be one-sided. Sarah was the kind of woman who does not need female friends, only the occasional sparring partner with whom to exchange recondite information. This function was obviously filled by Berthe, who waved to me across the room. I would have approached her, thinking her intriguing, though much too noisy, had it not been for Angela, whom it would have been rude to desert.

‘Don’t mind me,’ she said, ‘if you want to circulate. I’ve got my hands full. Has everybody had enough to eat, do you think?’

The food lay around almost untouched. Drink, on the other hand, was being consumed on a scale with which I was unfamiliar. The atmosphere was thick with smoke.

‘I shouldn’t worry about the food,’ I told her. ‘You’ve done splendidly.’

‘I’d better take it back to the kitchen, then. Oh, you’re not leaving?’

‘Well, yes. I brought some papers home with me that I ought to look at tonight.’ That at least was true.

I slipped out into the beautiful night, in which even the sound of a police siren made a relatively civilised noise. I was halfway down Paddington Street when I heard footsteps behind me and turned to see Angela, her ghostly white blouse and flowered skirt enhanced by the light of a street lamp. Politely I waited for her to catch me up, reflecting that she was actually rather pretty. In the dark she seemed fragile, her waist and ankles thin, her hair almost bleached.

‘Which way do you go?’ she asked, a little breathlessly.

I told her that I lived in Wigmore Street, to which she said, ‘Oh, then you’re quite near Sarah.’ I said that my flat was convenient for my office in Gloucester Place, to which she replied that she too lived near her work in Bloomsbury. After this there seemed nothing more to say, and we walked on in silence.

‘I can’t take you home,’ I said. ‘I’ve got this work to sort out before tomorrow. I’ll find you a cab.’

‘Oh, that’s all right. I’m in no hurry. It’s rather pleasant to walk after stewing in that room, isn’t it?’

‘Didn’t you enjoy yourself?’

‘Oh, of course I enjoyed myself. It’s just that I’m a bit of a loner. I love walking in the country. I love reading. Do you read a lot?’

‘Not really. What sort of books do you read?’

‘Oh, anything. I’ve been known to pick up two or three paperbacks just for the weekend.’

This seemed to me so damning an answer that there was nothing further to say. By now we were in Wigmore Street, passing the coffee bar where I ate my breakfast. I was glad to see that it was closed.

‘Is that your local?’ she asked.

‘I sometimes eat there,’ I replied.

‘Oh, how interesting.’ Her voice trailed off, as if she were thinking of something else. She seemed quite ready to get into the cab I hailed, as if exhausted or preoccupied. I lifted my hand briefly as the cab passed me, and then thought of her no more.

Ringing Sarah the next day, or rather attempting to ring her, took the best part of a morning. When I eventually got through it was to be told that she was going away for a bit. ‘Anywhere special?’ I asked. Possibly America, I was informed. To see friends. To my enquiries as to when she was leaving the answers were vague. ‘I’ll want to see you before you go,’ I said temperately. ‘I’ll come round this evening. Will you be there?’

She said she thought so, but not to count on it. That evening found me once again peering through her letter-box. Then I went home and dialled her number. There was no response. For the first time in our history the sound awakened in me not merely frustration but bafflement, estrangement, distress. It was as if I were in a permanently empty room, and as if a ringing telephone, by some unknown decree, were doomed to ring unanswered throughout eternity.

Shortly after that evening I had a remote perception of Sarah’s absence. It affected me like a sudden fall in body temperature, or a diminution of oxygen in the atmosphere. My feelings were a mystery to me. To fall in love with someone who refuses all communication was contrary to my nature, which is nothing if not practical. I had always thought that my life would follow a pleasant if undistinguished pattern: success in the profession, harmonious family relationships, and eventually marriage and children. I was modestly successful, certainly, and I was devoted to my mother, but I did not see myself married, since Sarah was the only woman I desired, and Sarah promised only the most fugitive of contacts, no sooner offered than taken away, leaving no trace, and with every absence growing more elusive.

If I felt any satisfaction with my part in this liaison it was
largely for having taken up a challenge, and for having flown in the face of all my precepts, professional and otherwise. I had the distinct impression that my modest store of principles was diminishing: I was ready to behave uncharacteristically in pursuit of this empty centre of my life, a pursuit which I rather thought might last for ever. I was ready, in short, to devote myself to her, although I knew that such devotion would not influence her in any way. There was always present the sheer difficulty of impinging on her consciousness, of that attention always withheld, and it was precisely against this sense of occlusion that her physical response seemed so miraculous. Yet in my more collected moments I was aware that I knew very little about her, as indeed did her mother. Another letter from Sybil had arrived that morning; the scope of her grievances seemed to have widened. Now she complained about her daughter, and behind the complaints I sensed a genuine impotence. Would I see to it that Sarah kept in touch? ‘From a professional point of view, Alan, your words are bound to have an influence.’ I had apparently been promoted to magistrate, or perhaps rural dean, with cure of souls. I wrote back, on a purposely vague but I hope affectionate note, saying that I had seen Sarah, that she was well and happy, and that I was sure that she would be in touch. If I did this it was because Sybil now derived additional importance from the fact that she was Sarah’s mother.

It must have been a few weeks later that on entering the coffee bar for breakfast I saw Angela, seated expectantly at a table, an empty cup in front of her. My astonishment was hardly feigned; on the other hand it was not her fault that she wore that look of bright expectancy. Not her fault, perhaps, but just possibly an error, as was the fact that she made no apology for invading my privacy in this manner. For I regarded this half-hour as unconditionally mine. Even the
proprietress, Mrs Daley, knew not to engage me in conversation. My coffee appeared without commentary, followed by my toast. I was only just aware of the hand placing the cup and plate on the table, leaving me to uninterrupted perusal of
The Times.
Bachelors enjoy these small privileges, even when they are distracted, as I had to admit I was, although I viewed my condition as morbid. For that very reason I made an effort to behave normally, or as normally as was possible in these abnormal circumstances.

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘This is a surprise.’

‘I just thought it would be nice to see you again.’ She reddened then, with one of her frequent blushes. My only thought was how transparent she was. She made no attempt to hide the fact that she had to all intents and purposes followed me. Such directness was a novelty after the feints of Sarah’s behaviour, and I suppose I felt relief that cards were for once on the table. In the harsh light of the café she was pleasant to look at; her colouring was fresh and her eyes bright. When she felt me looking at her she undid her head-scarf and shook back her hair. She regarded this manoeuvre as defiantly seductive and blushed again, furiously, when she saw my face relax into a smile.

‘So, what are you up to these days?’ I asked her. It seemed only polite to take an interest in her life, although she seemed already to have produced it for my inspection. I thought I could guess the rest: that she had until recently lived at home with her parents (I was wrong here: her mother was a widow, like mine), that she was not altogether happy living in a flat with two other girls, that she was the one who stayed home and washed her hair while the other two went out, that she was frightened by her companions’ promiscuity, or what she thought of as promiscuity, that she had lost her virginity late and reluctantly, and that she needed stronger personalities to protect her from the shocks
of this rough world. Her attendance on Sarah was entirely characteristic, although she may not even have liked her. Probably attraction and repulsion were the same two sides of every coin for her, and fear would be uppermost in her mind at every new encounter. It had no doubt taken an enormous act of courage for her to confront me like this, for it was a confrontation, of that there was no doubt. She was laying herself open for my inspection, and I could not help but feel touched. I was also irritated. There was an element of pleading in her rather too bright expression. I thought she might burst into tears if I were not gentle with her. I recognised the obligations to be gentle as a chore, and thought of Sarah with yet another pang. With Sarah I was not obliged to be gentle. I may have been importunate but that was my choice: I could also be selfish, brutal, joyous, triumphant. She had given me tacit permission to please myself and in so doing to please her at the same time. That was her gift to me: pure unreflecting pleasure, for which I felt there would never be any substitute.

‘I expect you’re very busy,’ said Angela, as if she knew that all men were perpetually busy.

‘Well, I dare say you are too,’ I replied. ‘After all, women do most of the work these days, or so they tell me. The girls in my office don’t let me get away with any assumptions about my importance, or rather lack of it.’ I was making heavy weather of this, I realised. I simply did not know what to say.

‘I meant to tell you—that’s why I’m here, really. I took those lilies home with me. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Didn’t Sarah want them then?’ I asked carelessly.

‘She said the smell gave her a headache. When I went back the next day to clear up she said to throw them away. So I took them. You’re not cross, are you?’

‘Not at all. And, anyway, Sarah’s away, I believe.’

‘That’s right. America. She’s wonderful, isn’t she, the way she just acts on impulse? I mean she hasn’t got a job or anything. I know she’s quite well off, but you’d think she’d invest her money or something. I know I would. But she seems determined to enjoy herself while she can. I suppose you can’t blame her.’

Angela obviously did blame her, just as she blamed her prodigality in every other respect. Though she had no proof of this she must have intuited it correctly.

‘Any idea how long she’ll be away?’ I asked. ‘Or when she’s coming back?’

‘Not really, no. You never know with Sarah, do you? At least I don’t. She makes me quite dizzy sometimes.’ She laughed merrily to show that she bore no malice. I revised my earlier opinion: I could see that she disliked Sarah quite intensely.

‘I rather need to know how to get in touch with her,’ I said.

‘My goodness, are you another one of Sarah’s conquests?’ Again the merry laugh. This girl, I could see, this
maiden
, had been severely shaken by her friendship, if friendship it could be called, with a woman whom she knew to be superior to herself in one crucial respect, and brooding on this superiority had made her clumsy in her approach to men. Her wholesome aspect, her evident lack of experience, which might have attracted a much older man, embarrassed me, and made me very slightly antagonistic. I did not appreciate this lack of subtlety, although paradoxically it was being paraded for my benefit. I knew that unless I injected a note of sobriety into the proceedings there might be some hectic and unwelcome attempts to tease me. I have seen men beguiled by this sort of nonsense, which I associated with children’s birthday parties. I put it on a level with tickling: certainly I wanted no part of it.

‘Sarah is a distant relation of mine,’ I told her, picking up our two bills. ‘Her mother has asked me to keep an eye on her.’

‘Oh. Oh, I see. Well I can’t help you there, I’m afraid. She didn’t tell me when she was coming back. I expect she’ll just turn up when she feels like it, don’t you?’

As she walked out of the door in front of me I noticed the slimness of her legs. Otherwise her physical presence hardly registered, although I had every opportunity to appreciate it since she turned up again the following day, and the day after that. Soon Mrs Daley, sensing perhaps my irritation, would answer my silent enquiry with a barely perceptible nod towards the corner of the room where Angela was modestly but insistently installed. I was left in no doubt that she had me in her sights. This so alarmed me that for a week I went to the trouble of cooking breakfast at home, but this entailed remembering to buy bread and eggs, and carrying a plastic bag to the office, to the disapproval of Mrs Roche. Then one morning I found that I had run out of coffee, and felt vaguely ashamed of myself for so obviously avoiding this quite harmless girl. Mrs Daley was quite aware of my state of mind. By the end of three weeks she had ceased to nod conspiratorially to me and now busied herself polishing spoons. She had decided to believe that Angela was my girl-friend. Unfortunately Angela did too.