Prudence (2 page)

After Marcia she moved on to shopping, rabbiting on and on about triumphant forays to Dickins and Jones, dignified rebukes to shop assistants, the matching saucers tracked down, the jersey with the pulled thread returned. Really I wasn’t up to it at all.

Behind her the accountant was making more code signs trying to get me on to the dance floor, and out of the corner of my eye I could see the rugger player waiting to tackle from the left. The flatmate who hadn’t been able to have a bath was dancing with the goat, which seemed appropriate. Perhaps they were having a pong-pong match. A couple were necking unashamedly on the next door armchair, the man’s hand well advanced into the girl’s blouse. I was terrified Marcia’s mother would see them. Marcia had turned up the volume to drown the more excessive of the rugger songs and the distant sounds of some of the fruit salad being regurgitated in the lavatory.

I couldn’t hear a word Marcia’s mother was saying. My only hope was to watch her teeth and laugh when she did. I was in despair; my glass was empty; I thought of sending out maroons. I knew as a copywriter and as a potential novelist I ought to be studying the old monster. One day I might want to put her in the book. The true writer’s supposed never to be bored by anyone, but what was the point of studying her if I’d be far too drunk to remember anything about her in the morning?

Suddenly I saw Pendle through a gap. He was talking to the blonde with dirty fingernails, but he was glancing at his watch and had the abstracted look of a referee about to blow his whistle. That decided me.

‘I must get you some of Marcia’s delicious pudding,’ I yelled in her ear, and floundered towards the food table. Marcia passed me going in the other direction.

‘Poor Mummy,’ she screamed, ‘I was just coming to rescue you.’

I ate some kedgeree out of the dish. It was quite good. I licked the spoon thoughtfully and took some more. One of the rugger players tugged off the goat’s udders and, to much shrieking, threw them out of the window. Pendle suddenly looked round and caught my eye. He left the blonde and came over.

‘“I stood among them, but not of them”,’ I intoned, ‘“In a shroud of thoughts which were not their thoughts”.’

‘You got trapped,’ he said.

‘I’ve been taken on a tour of three million department stores. I feel utterly shop-wrecked.’

He didn’t smile. I licked the spoon, then helped myself to more kedgeree and ate it. Then I realized how disgusting it must look. I blushed and put the spoon down. The mauve candles bought to match the Michaelmas daisies, which Mummy had presumably brought up from the country, were almost burnt down.

‘The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plaintiff,’ I said, picking at the battlements of wax. Still not a flicker. Really he was making me feel very edgy with all this staring.

‘Pretty fireproof, aren’t you,’ I snapped. ‘Why don’t you go if you’re so bored?’

He looked at me consideringly for a minute then said, ‘I will if you come with me.’

I was so surprised I nearly dropped the saucepan.

‘Wild horse-guards wouldn’t keep me away,’ I said.

Two seconds later, I was burrowing like a dog through all those tweed and camelhair coats to find my bag, panicking that he might change his mind.

Outside the beginning of autumn lay sodden and misty, with a faint smell of dying bonfires in the Chelsea gardens. Conker husks and the kapok innards of the udder lay strewn over the pavement.

He had an expensive looking car, pale grey, of course. I remember there was a half-eaten bar of chocolate in the glove compartment. I ought to have seen the red light then. People who don’t gobble up a bar of chocolate in one go have too much self-control.

‘Why are you called Pendle?’ I said, snuggling down in the front seat.

‘After a mountain, not far from our house.’

‘I bet it’s hell to climb and covered with snow all the year round,’ I said, admiring his perfect Greek nose. I’d got hiccups quite badly. ‘Not a very good party.’

‘I don’t like cold houses and warm drink,’ said Pendle, ‘but it had its compensation. Where do you live?’

‘On my nerves and on the edge of Battersea Park. My flatmate works in publishing. She’s lovely.’

‘All girls say their flatmates are lovely.’

‘She really is. She’s having an affair with a married man, going home to bed in the lunch hour and all that.’

‘What about you?’ he said.

‘I play the field,’ I said.

It was true. I had plenty of boyfriends at that time, but no one I really cared about. I was poised for the big dive.

The sky was a brooding dappled dun colour; the moon was drifting through the clouds like a distraught hostess. A slight breeze jostled the leaves along pavements and gutters. We were driving along the Embankment now, the river rippling in the moonlight. Such was my euphoria, I didn’t realize we hadn’t crossed Chelsea Bridge towards Battersea until we drew up at a large block of flats.

‘
Ou sommes-nous maintenant?
’ I said.

‘
Mon apartement
,’ said Pendle.

‘
Oh la la.
Where’s that?’

‘Westminster. Very convenient for my chamber in the Temple.’

‘Torture chambers,’ I muttered. ‘I suppose that’s where you dream up devilish plots to confound your poor victims.’

Pendle lent across and opened the door for me.

‘I don’t usually go to men’s flats the first night I meet them,’ I said.

‘I’m sure you don’t,’ he said calmly. ‘I hope you don’t usually go to parties like Marcia’s.’

‘Oh well,’ I said, as he locked the car, ‘just a quick drink and then home.’

‘What floor?’ I said, collapsing into the lift.

‘Thirteen. Are you superstitious?’

‘No, just super.’ As I haphazardly pressed a button, Pendle took me in his arms. That first kiss felt so faint-makingly right that it was only when he stopped for breath that I realized the lift had stopped too. Aware that I wouldn’t be looking my best with smeared lipstick under overhead light, I scrabbled at the lift gates, then felt very silly when I realized we were still on the ground floor.

Pendle laughed. ‘You pressed the wrong button.’

When we finally reached his flat I headed straight for the bathroom for a re-spray. My face was very mussed and flushed. If only I looked as nice after parties as I do at the beginning. To my dismay I then realized I’d left my muck bucket at Marcia’s and brought someone else’s bag instead. Inside I found a notecase with three fivers, a driving licence, several credit cards, and a photograph of a labrador and a tweedy woman with her legs apart. There was even a diary with the pencil still in the back — and we were now in September. Obviously a well-ordered person. Alas the only make-up she had was an awful cherry lipstick, which was hardly sufficient for the repair job I needed. I peered into Pendle’s medicine cupboard hoping for some make-up left by a former or current mistress, but only found expensive aftershave, talcum powder and, what was more interesting, two half-full bottles of tranquillizers and sleeping pills. Perhaps he was much more strung up than he seemed, behind the cool façade.

‘Oh well,’ I thought, taking the shine off with a bit of talcum powder, and slapping his aftershave on to my pulse spots, ‘I’ll just have to rely on personality.’

He was standing in the hall. For a minute he stood there staring at me, as though he was memorizing every feature.

‘It’s incredible.’

‘Will I do?’ I said, swinging on the door handle.

‘A thousand ships,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Well perhaps 950 ships. A purist would grumble about the freckles, and say your eyes were too far apart.’

I looked bemused.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve been trained to be infuriatingly enigmatic. It’s a game I used to play with my brother Jack. You know, Helen was the face that launched a thousand ships; we used to grade women from 1,000 ships downwards.’

‘What’s Marcia?’ I said.

‘She only rates a rather dirty tug boat and a couple of sampans.’

I giggled.

‘She won’t be pleased. I’ve walked off with someone else’s bag.’

‘It seems sad that someone of your tender age should join the criminal classes so early,’ said Pendle.

‘Will you defend me?’

‘M’Lord, the defendant was not in full possession of her senses when the crime occurred.’

‘You can say that again. Had I better take it back?’

‘Christ no, not tonight. Ring up and say you’ve got it. The telephone’s over there.’

Just as I was dialling, Pendle picked up my hair and kissed me on the back of my neck, sending shivers down my spine.

‘Nice hair,’ he said. ‘Is it natural?’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’m far too young to dye.’

I actually made him laugh. Oh, the wages of scintillation! Then I had to dial the number again.

Marcia was cross. ‘We’ve been looking for it everywhere, and Mummy and I wanted to do the washing up. Where are you?’

‘Back home. I’ll bring it over first thing in the morning.’

I wandered into the drawing-room which was beautiful, harmonizing greys and rusts, with several abstract paintings with signatures even I’d heard of, thousands of books, and the sort of vastly elaborate hi-fi system you need a licence to drive. He opened a cupboard full of drink. That ought to have been another warning. If Jane and I have a bottle in our flat, we drink it. If there’s more than one we give a party.

‘What d’you want to drink?’ he said.

‘A gimlet please,’ I said, thinking that would fox him. But he reached straight for the Vodka.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t any fresh limes,’ he said. ‘Will lime juice do? I’ll get some ice. Put a record on.’

They were all classical, but I by-passed the Bach and the Bruckner and put on Ravel’s Bolero. That beat drives me insane.

He came back and handed me a large drink.

‘How delicious,’ I said, taking a huge gulp that nearly took my throat off. He poured himself some whisky and sat down on the sofa opposite me. He lit a cigarette and stared at me through the smoke — it was very unnerving. He’s the only man I’ve met who is completely unembarrassed by silences.

‘I was at school with Marcia,’ I said. Silly that the old bag seemed to be our main point of communication. ‘She was always winning prizes for history.’

‘She still seems to be buried in the Dark Ages,’ said Pendle.

‘How do you know her?’

‘Her father’s a high court judge.’

Oh, so he was ambitious. I started to sing that snatch of Gilbert and Sullivan about falling in love with an old attorney’s elderly ugly daughter.

‘Not that Marcia’s so elderly or ugly really,’ I added, quickly remembering that men aren’t supposed to like bitchy girls.

‘I couldn’t do that,’ I rattled on. ‘Marry someone awful just to advance my career. I don’t think I could ever sleep my way to the top.’

The rate I was going downhill, I reflected, I could easily sleep my way to the bottom. I did fancy him, but I mustn’t, not on the first night. I was far too tight anyway, and my Bermuda shorts were even tighter; they left the most unattractive creases on my body.

He was still staring at me. I tried to cross my legs, but found they were already crossed. That Bolero was really getting going now. Tum-tutty tum, tutty, tutty, tutty tum, tutty, tum. I was itching to dance — but instead I got up and went over to look at his books. There was some philosophy, some poetry, but mostly law books.

I turned round and, smiling, danced slowly towards him. The music made me feel as though I had long gipsy skirts on. I must have looked an idiot in those Bermudas. I stood swaying in front of him. He watched me through narrowed eyes for a moment, then caught me by the hips and pulled me on to his knees.

Oh dear, I did adore kissing him — but suddenly everything got out of control. He was biting at my lips. His hands were everywhere, ripping off my clothes. He turned completely savage, and I was fighting to get away from him. Then, just as suddenly, he stopped and buried his face in my neck.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I’m sorry.’ It was weird, as though he were talking to someone else. After a few seconds, he got up and took me home and he never made another pass at me.

In fact I was shattered when Pendle rang me the next day and asked me out, and from then on took me out two or three times a week. As a boyfriend, you couldn’t fault him. He always took me to nice places, he rang when he said he would, and was never more than five minutes late. But, somehow, he never opened up with me, and beyond the fact that he dressed well, had a beautiful flat and was already making a name for himself at the Bar, I knew nothing about him.

What I noticed most was his rigid self-control — or was it lack of appetite? He never ate much, pushing his plate aside after a few bites and lighting a cigarette; he never drank much, and always after an excellent dinner and a bottle of wine, when I was expansive, and ready for laughter and love, he would tip the waiter, exactly 10 per cent, gather up his change and take me home.

I tried everything to win him. I leant forward in low-cut dresses, and backward in high-neck sweaters. I put my hair in bunches, in case he was on the Lolita kick. I put my hair up, in case he liked sophisticates. I even faked flu, and wore a see-through nightie when he came to see me. Not a pass was made, not a lecherous grab.

And yet I found this icy reserve ridiculously seductive. Every time I made him laugh I felt I’d conquered Everest. I had also seen him moved to tears by a Beethoven Quintet. The whole time I was aware of the banked fires beneath the icy reserve, of a tension just this side of menace. As the weeks passed I found myself getting more and more hooked on him.

Jane and I discussed it interminably.

‘Perhaps he’s a pouf,’ said Jane.