New World in the Morning (27 page)

“Which of course you weren't?”

“Which of course I was.” She smiled. She'd clearly derived pleasure from leading me on, from causing me to form an expectation which, sooner or later, she would utterly confound. That was good. I saw it as part of a pattern.
Impossible
, she had said. Impossible would turn out, in the end, to be distinctly—gloriously—possible.

I didn't begrudge her the desire to play.

“After all,” she said, “you don't fall out of love in just one evening.”

This was another piece of encouragement…whether or not consciously given.

“And it was also very feasible,” I said, “that he was being perfectly sincere, your husband? I'm sure he could have meant to reform.”

I wanted to demonstrate my sense of fairness, even though I recognized the gesture to be hollow. Profoundly hollow. Hadn't I been told the ending?

“You think so, Sam?” She pursed her lips and nodded. “Yes, at the time, that's what I myself thought. But since then I've never been quite sure.”

It didn't cost me much to be magnanimous. I wasn't like some—like my father-in-law, for instance—who believed in knifing somebody already dying.

“Moira, I feel certain he must have intended to reform. He was simply weak, that's all. Why won't you give him the benefit of the doubt?”

“Well, perhaps you're right.” She gave in gracefully and although I realized it wasn't what you might call a
major
victory I felt disproportionately elated. I, too, was a shaper of opinions. Without even asking, I helped myself to a further shot of whisky.

“Nevertheless,” she continued, “I know you'll understand how terribly it shook me to find out,
only six weeks later
, that he was still lying? That he had yet another woman? Or maybe the same one; but by then it didn't seem to matter.”

“But what I
can't
understand,” I assured her, “nor ever will, is how he could just chuck away something so incredibly precious.”

“Then join the club,” she suggested bitterly. “Because once again you're perfectly right—it
was
precious, the way I felt about him; everything I thought we had between us; those two years of—apparently—almost perfect happiness. Good heavens, did we have some great times! Good heavens, did I love him! And good heavens—wouldn't I have done practically anything he asked!”

Believe it or not, I sat there feeling jealous. Feeling jealous of this man who had so totally fucked up; this man who had a
truly
self-destructive streak—my predecessor, who must now be passing the rest of his life in limbo.
And why did I do it, Lord, oh why in the name of hell did I ever do it?
That's what I knew he must be asking. The never-ending question.

Feeling jealous of a soul in torment.

So much for magnanimity.

“But all the same,” she said, in a voice from which the bitterness had swiftly evaporated, “I suppose you can sympathize. In a way. He was a liar; a pathological liar. Lied about everything. Simply couldn't help himself. At least,” she pulled a wry expression, “such was the view of the psychiatrist.”

“He went to a psychiatrist?”

“No, I did.” (Again! Complete reversal of an expectation!) “But a good deal later. After we'd split up. And after I'd spent most of my leisure time—and some of my working time as well—just sitting about like a zombie. I asked my doctor for some pills. He sent me on for counselling.”

“Oh, God, how desperate you must have felt!” I yearned to sit beside her, take her hand, but didn't yet know if I should risk it. Instead, I tried to inject into my voice, my eyes, my body language, all the compassion of which I was capable. “What a nightmare! To be married to someone who couldn't help but lie, yet who went on remaining so altogether plausible! You can't ever have been sure of anything! I can't imagine how you coped!”

“Well, as I say…finally I didn't. I went to pieces.”

“For how long?”

“Six months… About six months.”

“But by then you were over him?”

“Over him? I suppose so. Though you can't go through a thing like that without its changing you. And, naturally, I don't mean for the better.”

“Perhaps you ought to let others be the judge of that?”

Inevitably, this sentence set up echoes and I really wished I hadn't used it. She only shook her head, however, and offered no rejoinder.

But following another instant of quiet she did what I'd been hoping she wouldn't. She looked at her watch.

“Oh, gracious, Sam! It's time for you to leave!”

“Of course.”

I made to get up, but then, as if seeming to notice there was still some Scotch in my tumbler, sat back to finish it.

“Yet you can't let one bad experience disillusion you forever.” I suddenly remembered something. “Though it's little wonder,” I added, “that you described yourself as cynical, that evening on the beach!”

“Yes—and little wonder I should now describe myself as justified!”

“What?”

“Oh, you fool! You
fool
!” It was as if the forcefulness of ‘fool' had brought her flying to her feet; but it was also as if the action's abruptness had absorbed not augmented her vehemence. “Yet perhaps it wasn't your fault,” she said, “any more than it was Zach's.”

I was astounded. I was so astounded that for a moment I actually wondered if I had understood her properly.

“But I'm not…! I am not Zach! I am not a pathological liar!”

I could only hope that my incredulity would work in my defence.

“It was the one time,” I cried, “absolutely the one and only time! I swear it, Moira! You have to believe that!”

“Oh, you fool,” she repeated; but in a tone far less impassioned, a tone almost loving—yes, things were even
now
going to work out. “I took to you immediately. For the first time in years I found myself aroused. Not simply by your looks, by something that went deeper, I tried to tell you in the car, some suggestion of values these days largely disappearing …? Anyhow, after we'd all met on the beach and had decided to go for that drink—and you had charmed the barmaid into bringing Susie a bowl of watered beer, even a bag of crisps she wouldn't let us pay for—well, by then I was already…yes, already… For the first time since Zach!—and when I'd never believed that it could happen to me again! You were kind and old-fashioned and dependable. And fun. I kept Liz up for a couple of hours after we got home, talking almost exclusively about you. I hardly slept that night. I was so full of dreams.”

“I hardly slept that night, either.”

“It was history repeating itself. The same old maelstrom. The same old burgeoning belief that there was no other man on earth like the one I'd just met.”

“And I had the same feeling—exactly the same! I had already fallen in love, too! In the shop. On the beach. I had to act so quickly. I hadn't time to think. What else could I have done?”

“You could have told us the truth, for heaven's sake! You could have told us the truth!” Vehemence again but equally short-lived. “Hinted that you were trapped in a bad marriage; that you and your wife were incompatible; brought out all the old clichés…which are clichés only because—so often—that's the way life is. You could have told us in the pub, or told me on the phone, given me the facts, allowed me to make up my own mind as to whether or not there could be any sort of future for us…”

“I was
going
to tell you in the pub. I really was. I'd decided about that right from the beginning. I was even going to tell you before we got to the pub.”

“Is that right?” she said, totally unconvinced.

“God's honour! God's honour! I know that mayn't sound like very much since I'm not…” I stopped, awkwardly.

“Not what?” she asked.

“But I was so scared I'd lose you. Can't you understand that? And then after you'd phoned—you gave me such a glimpse of paradise, I couldn't jeopardize the whole weekend, I… But, truly, I was going to tell you before I left London, I was going to make a very full confession, I…” Another sharp halt. “But hell, Moira, I
did
tell you, didn't I? I
did
make a very full confession. That's what this is all about, isn't it?” My voice rose, vindicated and triumphant. “What better proof could you possibly ask for?”

“You were drunk,” she said. “In vino veritas.”

“But that doesn't make one
jot
of difference. All it did was hasten the process.”

“Because you knew it could only be a question of time before I found you out.”

It seemed to me she was shifting her ground. (My goddess was shifting her ground!)

“Exactly! How could I ever have hoped to keep anything so fundamental under wraps?”

“Maybe Zach had been your mentor?”

“Forget Zach! I am
not
Zach! I am nothing
like
Zach!”

“Besides…” In place of conceding my advantage she simply altered the direction of her serve. “I used to love
The Waltons
,” she said. “This must have been my punishment. I fell for someone who was so good to his granny and whose granny was so good to him…”

“No, you didn't,” I replied, angrily. “What on earth had you heard about my granny when you walked out of
Treasure Island
on that first morning?”

She merely repeated, “It's time for you to go.” And she waited until I, too, was on my feet. “Incidentally, you had better take that cake with you. I couldn't give it to the dustmen and I don't think Oxfam would be interested.”

Another last-ditch attempt. (I was clearly being pretty fair in my treatment of both wife and mistress.) “Then won't you even believe it was the happiest period of my life: those moments which I spent with you last Friday night and Saturday?”

“I don't suppose your wife would be precisely over the moon to hear that.”

“No, listen. There's a difference. I was only nineteen when we married. I knew nothing about anything. Certainly not about love. I may have thought I did but…” Suddenly I went to her and took her by the shoulders. “I'm not sure how much of this is getting through.”

“Not very much, I'm afraid. I feel sorry for you, Sam, but I don't imagine I could ever trust you again. I'm sorry if that's blunt.”

She made an attempt to pull free but my fingers had strengthened their hold. “You have
got
to trust me!” I declared. “I feel desperate. Desperate! I don't know what I'm going to do.”

Somehow she broke away. “Now, no more caveman stuff—you promised! I'll go and fetch the cake.”

“I couldn't carry it. I've two cases to carry already.”

At least she didn't press the point. “Where will you be heading?”

“God alone knows!” The bleakness of my tone may have been
slightly
exaggerated but not a lot. “It doesn't matter. Earl's Court? South Ken? Aren't those the two big names in Bedsitter Land?”

“Or else there's Kilburn,” she said. “Which is a good deal closer, only down the road, similarly cheap and grotty…maybe even more so.” She glanced at her watch again. “Although after seven in the evening…I think you may need to go into a hotel.”

“No, I'll try Kilburn. Cheap and grotty fits in perfectly with how I feel.”

“Are you being deliberately pathetic?”

“Pathetic? That's a bit of a far cry, isn't it, from strong, vulnerable, innocent?”
That
is what she had tried to tell me in the car. “But anyhow…”

I turned my head away. It was true that in the first place I had been making something of a bid for sympathy. But the dampness which filled my eyes just then was genuine and I didn't want her to see it.

“Oh, Sammy,” she sighed. It was the last thing she should have done…I mean, depending on your point of view. Quite suddenly, I was shaking, so racked with sobs that at first I couldn't draw breath. She stepped forward and took me in her arms and perhaps for as long as a minute I cried myself out while holding onto her.

“Please take a chance on me. You've simply no idea how much I love you.”

Then the doorbell rang.

28

She remained downstairs for several minutes. I could hear the sound of two voices, Moira's and a man's, but nothing at all of what was said. When she came back, she seemed relaxed.

“I didn't tell you earlier but that in fact was Zach. I still see him occasionally, either here or at a restaurant. I can't help feeling fond of him.”

She added: “Come into the kitchen and I'll scramble you some eggs.”

“Did he mind being sent away?”

“A little…but I couldn't believe this was the time for you to meet.”

“May I go and wash my face?”

“Of course.”

“I didn't mean to do that to you.”

“I know.”

“I always used to feel contempt for men who cried.”

“You're just a sexist pig!” But she gave me the sort of smile I hadn't seen since Saturday.

While we were eating, she said: “What did you mean, Sam, when you told me swearing on God's name mightn't sound like very much, since you weren't—since you weren't what? A person who believed in God?”

I hesitated, looked down at the tablecloth. Fully recognized that my answer could be crucially important; practically a matter of life and death.

The supreme irony. I almost prayed again. This time for guidance.

I said: “I know I led you to believe that I was someone who had faith in God. I… Well, that was also…”

“What?”

I'd been about to say: “A lie—I think perhaps the last.” I would have added: “Except, no, one further sin of omission: I never told you that I've had a vasectomy.”