“My fancy man?”
He inhaled on his cigarette, then stubbed it out sharply under his heel.
“So that’s how you want to play it, huh? What is it? Do I not measure up because I didn’t understand some stupid word?”
“What man?” She had hold of his shirtsleeve now, unable to help herself. “Who are you talking about?”
He shook her off angrily. “Are you playing games with me?”
“No,” she protested. “I just need to know who you saw me with.”
“Jesus! I knew I should have gone with Mo when I had the chance. At least she appreciates a man. She’s not a—a prick-tease,” he spat.
Suddenly his features, flushed and angry, were flooded with light. Jennifer spun round to see Laurence holding open the fire escape door. He took in the illuminated spectacle of his wife and the man who was stepping away from her. Reggie, head down, swept past Laurence and into the building without a word, wiping his mouth.
She stood, frozen. “Laurence, it’s not what you—”
“Get inside,” he said.
“I just—”
“Get inside. Now.” His voice was low, apparently calm. After the briefest hesitation, she stepped forward and into the stairwell. She made for the door, preparing to rejoin the party, still trembling with confusion and shock, but as they passed the lift he grabbed her wrist and spun her around.
She looked down at his hand, gripping her, then up at his face.
“Don’t think you can humiliate me, Jennifer,” he said quietly.
“Let go of me!”
“I mean it. I’m not some fool you can—”
“Let go of me! You’re hurting me!” She pulled backward.
“Listen to me.” A muscle pulsed in his jaw. “I won’t have it. Do you understand me? I won’t have it.” He was gritting his teeth. There was so much anger in his voice.
“Laurence!”
“Larry! You call me Larry!” he shouted, his free fist lifting. The door opened, and that man from Accounts stepped out. He was laughing, his arm around the girl from earlier. He registered the scene, and his smile faded. “Ah . . . We were just stepping out for some air, sir,” he said awkwardly.
It was at that moment that Laurence let go of her wrist, and Jennifer, seizing her chance, pushed past the couple and ran down the stairs.
Chapter 9
SEPTEMBER 1960
Anthony sat on a bar stool, one hand around an empty coffee cup, watching the staircase that led to street level for any sign of a pair of slim legs descending. Occasionally a couple would walk down the stairs into Alberto’s, exclaiming about the unseasonal heat, their outrageous thirst, passing Sherrie, the bored cloakroom girl, slumped on her stool with a paperback. He would scan their faces and turn back to the bar.
It was a quarter past seven. Six thirty, she had said in the letter. He pulled it from his pocket again, thumbing its creases, examining the large, looping handwriting that confirmed she would be there. Love, J.
For five weeks they had traded letters, his forwarded to the sorting office on Langley Street, where she had taken out PO Box 13—the one, the postmistress had confided, that nobody ever wanted. They had seen each other only five or six times, and their meetings tended to be brief—too brief—confined to the few occasions that either his or Laurence’s work schedule allowed.
But what he could not always convey to her in person, he had said in print. He wrote almost every day, and he told her everything, without shame or embarrassment. It was as if a dam had been breached. He told her how much he missed her, of his life abroad, how until now he had felt perpetually restless, as if in constant earshot of a conversation that was going on somewhere else.
He laid his faults before her—selfish, stubborn, often uncaring—and told her how she had caused him to start ironing them out. He told her he loved her, again and again, relishing the appearance of the words on paper.
In contrast, her letters were short and to the point. Meet me here, they said. Or Not at that time, make it half an hour later. Or, simply, Yes. Me too. At first he had been afraid that such brevity meant she felt little for him, and found it hard to square the person she was when they were together, intimate, affectionate, teasing, concerned for his welfare, with the words she wrote.
One night when she had arrived very late—Laurence, he discovered, had come home early, and she had been forced to invent a sick friend to get out of the house at all—she had found him drunk and churlish at the bar.
“Nice of you to stop by,” he had said sarcastically, raising a glass to her. He had drunk four double whiskeys in the two hours he had waited.
She had pulled off her headscarf, ordered a martini, and, a second later, canceled it.
“Not staying?”
“I don’t want to watch you like this.”
He had berated her for the lack of all the things he felt from her—the lack of time, the lack of anything on paper that he could hold to him—ignoring the restraining hand that Felipe, the barman, had laid on his arm. What he felt terrified him, and he wanted to hurt her for it. “What’s the matter? Scared of putting down anything that might be used in evidence against you?”
He had hated himself as he said the words, knew he had become ugly, the object of pity he had tried so desperately to conceal from her.
Jennifer had turned on her heel and walked swiftly up the stairs, ignoring his yelled apology, his demand for her to return.
He had left a one-word message—“Sorry”—in the PO box the following morning, and two long, guilt-ridden days later he had received a letter.
Boot. I do not give my feelings easily to paper. I do not give them easily at all. You deal in the business of words, and I cherish each one you write to me. But do not judge my feelings by the fact that I don’t respond in kind.
I am afraid that if I tried to write as you do you would feel badly let down. Like I once said, my opinion is rarely sought on anything—let alone something as important as this—and I don’t find it easy to volunteer it. Trust that I am here. Trust me by my actions, my affections. Those are my currency.
Yours,
J.
He had cried with shame and relief when he got it. He suspected afterward that part of it, the part she did not talk about, was that she still bore the humiliation of that hotel room, no matter how hard he tried to convince her of his reason for not making love to her. For all that he said, he suspected she was still not convinced that she was more than just another of his married women.