Tigers in Red Weather (28 page)

“I won’t be a tick,” Eva called from the bathroom and Hughes looked up to see a flash of the green marble sink disappearing as she closed the door.

He heard her turn the taps, the sound of rushing water. He should really leave. He could go down to the bar and wait for her there.

Instead, he flipped through the paper. He started to read a story
about how families in London had made do over the Christmas holiday, managing to find clever ways to make rock buns and mince pies with their rations. It made him hungry. He wondered what Nick had eaten for Christmas. She had been with his parents, and their cook, Susan, was quite cunning when it came to black-market foods, or at least that’s what Nick had written him, with no little envy in her tone. Nick had a rapacious appetite for life, which didn’t sit well with rationing and making do. He chuckled at the image of her carefully saving up her butter rations for a piecrust. She was impatient and sometimes excessive, but that’s what had attracted him from the start. The belief that the world was hers for the taking. That, and her strange vulnerability. It had mesmerized him when he’d first met her, made him want to be a part of all that she promised. But he didn’t feel so strong anymore, and yet she remained unchanged, a fact he found disquieting.

Hughes heard Eva splashing and singing in the bath. This was ridiculous. He got up and went to the polished desk in front of the window. He would write her a note telling her to meet him in the bar. He picked up the pen and took a piece of the hotel stationery from the box. But Hughes realized he didn’t know how to start. “Dear Eva,” or just “Eva,” or “Mrs. Brooke”? Maybe just nothing. Just: “Down at the bar,” but that seemed a little rude. He stared at the paper and then picked up the pen and wrote:

Awaiting your ladyship at the bar
.

Hughes

He smiled, looking at it. That will get her goat, he thought to himself. But as he bent to place the note on the pillow, where he felt sure it wouldn’t be missed, he heard the bathroom door open. When he turned, there she was, standing naked as the day she was born, framed by the rich black tiles behind her.

“Hello,” Eva said.

It took Hughes a minute for his brain to register that he actually was seeing her. She was small and pale, with beautiful, heavy breasts, which hadn’t been noticeable beneath that big jacket. Heavy hips, too, so that her body looked like an hourglass. The tips of her hair were plastered to her wet shoulders. But it was her bush, large and dark and full, that his eyes fixed on. He had the odd thought that it was so unlike his wife’s, which was like a flat vine growing up a trellis.

Eva was staring at him, her eyes candid, hands still at her sides, without the slightest hint of embarrassment. And for some reason, this made him very angry.

“Put some clothes on,” he said coldly, crumpling up the note in his hand.

“Was that for me?” she asked, gesturing toward the balled-up paper. “What did it say?”

Hughes refused to turn away; it would be a sign of weakness. “For Christ’s sake, Mrs. Brooke, cover yourself up.” He was furious, but his tone was flat.

Eva shook her head, as if she pitied him. “We’re back to ‘Mrs. Brooke,’ are we?”

“We’re not back to anything,” Hughes said, feeling his hands begin to shake. “You are Mrs. Brooke, a fact you seem to be forgetting.”

“Trust me, Lieutenant, I haven’t forgotten.” Eva walked unhurriedly over to the wardrobe and opened it, running her hands over the clothes, as if she couldn’t decide what to wear.

Hughes knew he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, leave, so he looked at his feet while she dressed.

“All right, then, I’d say I’m decent enough even for the vicar,” she said finally. The line was witty, but her voice sounded tired.

He looked up. He was strangely disappointed to see her all covered up in blue wool, a belt cinched around her waist.

“Don’t tell me you’re not going to buy me that drink now,” she
said, as if he was the one who was being unreasonable. “Besides, you look like you might need it. Your face has gone all pale. I hope you’re not unwell.”

Hughes felt like slapping her. But he’d be damned if he was going to be backed down and humiliated by some girl who couldn’t keep her clothes on.

“I think I do need it,” he said, trying to sound light. “It’s not every day women throw themselves at me.”

He watched as Eva’s face colored. It gave Hughes some small measure of satisfaction.

“Yes, well, I can see why,” she said tightly. “If you behave like a silly schoolgirl.”

Hughes opened the door and Eva, gathering her handbag from the desk, walked out into the brightly lit hallway.

“We’re going to the Causerie,” she said. “They serve smorgasbord and you can eat all you’d like for the price of your drinks.”

“Sounds like a good deal,” Hughes said. He had decided he would buy her one drink and then get the hell out of there, go find a Red Cross where he could spend the night.

“It’s to get around the price restrictions, you see. It’s all very daring.”

The room was awash in pink and green, with a buffet table off to one side covered with platters of meat and smoked fish, beans and other small, warm dishes. A waiter greeted them.

“Lady Eva, good evening,” he said. “A table for two?”

“Yes, please,” Eva said, craning her neck around the waiter. “Perhaps the one in the corner over there?” She motioned with her bag.

Their table was next to a window, but the view was hidden by the blackout curtains drawn against the pane. The waiter pulled out a chair for Eva, and Hughes sat down across from her. He quickly rose again.

“Excuse me,” he said.

“Of course,” Eva said, knitting her brow.

Hughes walked back out into the lobby and inquired about the lavatories. Inside the gentlemen’s room, he tried to pee in one of the stalls, but realized he didn’t really have to. He zipped up his trousers and went out to the row of marble sinks. An attendant turned on the taps for him and handed him a small cake of soap. Hughes ran his hands under the warm water and looked in the mirror. He recreated Eva’s body in his mind, the dark hair between her thighs. He had acted like a prig, he realized, and he was slightly ashamed. He remembered her eyes, her unequivocal gaze on him. There had been no seduction in her expression, no lowering of the eyelashes, like he’d seen girls do when they were flirting. No terms of intimacy. Just a naked purity, and he realized it was that simplicity, or honesty, or whatever you wanted to call it, that disturbed him.

Besides Nick, he had never seen another naked woman, not fully naked, except for a few French postcards. With his wife, it was her beauty and volatility that gave him pleasure; it was as if he never knew if he was going to get her until the last minute. That’s how it was between them. She never came to him, the way Eva had. But it suddenly seemed childish, dishonest and not a little tiresome, all the acting and role-playing they did.

“Sir?” The attendant was holding out a hand towel toward him, and Hughes realized he had been standing there like an idiot with the water running.

“Thank you.” Hughes took the towel and dried his hands before walking out of the room, and back to the Causerie.

When he returned to the table in the corner, he found a gin and tonic waiting for him.

“I didn’t know what you liked, but I thought a gin and tonic was a safe choice, rather like the meat and potatoes of cocktails,” Eva said.

“That’s fine, thanks,” Hughes said.

“Are you hungry?” Her voice was very polite.

“Not quite yet.”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s been a busy day. I find that when things are hectic, one can lose one’s appetite.”

Hughes didn’t say anything; frankly, he didn’t know what to say. How do you respond to a girl who takes her clothes off in front of you one minute and then talks to you like your grandmother the next? He stirred the drink with the silver swizzle stick, mainly for something to do.

“Look,” Eva said, finally. “I’m sorry if I behaved badly earlier. Things … well, things are rather strange for me at the moment …”

“Forget it,” Hughes said, still stirring. “Don’t mention it.”

“No, really, I apologize.” She put her fingers over Hughes’s other hand, and then quickly withdrew them when he looked up. She started fiddling with the doily under her cocktail glass. “I’m leaving my husband, you see.”

“I see,” Hughes said.

“No, you don’t,” she said, passionately tearing at the lace. “I’m not looking to trap you or anything. It’s not like that. I suppose the whole business has just made me feel rather reckless.”

“It’s all right,” Hughes said. He felt sorry for this motorcycle-riding girl with a fancy name and a bad marriage. “Really, you don’t have to say anything.”

“Thank you,” Eva said. She took a sip of her drink. “I’m fine, really,” she continued. “I don’t want you to think I’m some unhinged woman who goes throwing herself at every soldier’s head. I just don’t love him, my husband, I mean, and I think it’s better not to pretend.”

“You don’t have to convince me,” Hughes said.

“I know that,” she said. “But for some reason I want to convince you. Do you understand?”

Hughes felt something shift inside him. He realized what it had meant to her to show herself to him. He was embarrassed that he had read it as something dirty. He wanted to go back and do it again, only
this time he would reach for her, he would let her know it was all right.

“I understand,” he said quietly.

“When you get married, you always choose the best person in your circle, and then you pray to God that circle never gets bigger,” Eva said. “But it always does, you see.”

“Yes.” He knew exactly what she meant. “Your circle got bigger, then, I guess.”

“The world is bigger,” Eva said.

“I don’t know if my world is bigger,” Hughes said, thinking about this. “But then again, honestly, I don’t feel sure about much these days. Which is funny, because I was so damn sure when I went into this.”

“Our war has been going on longer than yours,” Eva said. “We’ve had more time to watch things get smashed up.”

“And so your marriage.”

“And so my marriage,” Eva said, “is over.” By now she had managed to rip some of the lace away from the linen doily. “God, I’m the cliché. Wartime bride and all that.”

“No,” Hughes said, reaching out now and touching her wrist. “No, I was the one who was wrong. Some people are different.”

Eva smiled at him and Hughes’s heart constricted in his chest.

“But you might want to give that doily a break.” He grinned.

“Oh,” Eva said. “Yes.” And then: “Do you love your wife?”

“I do love her,” Hughes said, not moving his hand from her warm skin. “But I don’t want to talk about my wife right now.”

“Of course,” Eva said.

“I thought you were going to take me dancing,” he said. “Show me the sights and all that.”

Eva laughed. “You Americans are so forward.”

“I know, we can’t help ourselves. It’s all those wide-open spaces and clean living.”

“They have music here, in the ballroom. If you’d really like to dance.”

“If your card isn’t too full.”

“As it happens,” Eva said, “my card is completely empty at the moment.”

After a few more drinks, Hughes found himself holding Eva in the ballroom, under all its French plasterwork and ornate mirrors, as the small orchestra played “We’ll Meet Again.” Her chin didn’t quite reach his shoulder and she had turned her cheek away from him, so he found himself looking down at the curve of her profile.

“What did your husband say, when you told him?” Hughes asked, his voice lowered as if they were sharing a secret.

“He hasn’t said anything. I only sent the letter yesterday.” Eva spoke into his jacket.

He wondered if she’d ever loved her husband, and if she still loved him now, despite what she said. It made him afraid. Maybe there was someone else already. You could never tell with women. But he knew in his heart that was a lie, one he was telling himself so that wanting her didn’t have to mean anything.

“Do you think you’ll marry again?” He felt a small jolt of adrenaline as he waited for her answer.

“No,” Eva said after a minute. “I won’t ever marry again.”

Much later, he held her in the darkness of the bedroom, the sheets tangled at their feet. He looked at the faint outline of his uniform draped over the desk chair. His hand traced the curve of her breast and he could smell the soap from her bath rising off her damp skin. It was so quiet. For a minute he missed the sound of the depth charges on the
Jones
. He wanted to hear her voice, but he was also afraid of what she might say, or what he might want her to say. So he said nothing, asked nothing, until a V-2 flying overhead shattered the silence.

“It’s midnight,” he said finally. “It’s New Year’s Eve.”

“Yes,” Eva said.

“Maybe it’s the year the war will end.”

“Perhaps.”

He could feel what was unsaid between them, as if it had been spoken.

Eva turned her head and looked at him, and her face was the last thing he saw before he fell asleep.

Hughes woke early with the distinct feeling that he was suffocating. He rose quietly and dressed. He pulled the blackout curtains apart slightly and saw New Year’s Eve was gray, with a weak sun the color of urine trying to break through the cloud cover. He left without looking at Eva, letting the door close noiselessly on the latch.

The hotel was still; the only sound in the lobby was the soles of his shoes hitting the marble floor. Outside, he took a deep breath of damp, cold air and shoved his hands in his pockets and began walking.

The city looked ugly at that hour, dirty and broken. He wished the sky was clear and the air sharp, like it would be in Cambridge at this time of year. He tried not to think of Nick, but the more he tried, the more he thought of her. His wife, with her lovely smile, waiting for him. He hated himself. It was this damn war, turning everything upside down. You couldn’t be one person one day and another the next, but that’s what it did to you. He sure as hell didn’t like the person he was this morning. He was weak. He had promised to love and protect Nick and instead he had betrayed her. She trusted him. More than that, she needed him. She loved him. He was disgusted.