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complicated,’ she said.

      ‘How do you mean?’

      ‘Married, for one thing. And I’m complicated in myself, too.’

      ‘Well aren’t we all?’

      He held her cheek firmly to his, and she shrank away a little, either from his breath or from the patronizing nature of his gesture. This was one of the things Paula had objected to. He had found it delightful and clever that she managed to catch the train, managed to select the right platform, managed to put one foot in front of the other, organized so successfully the circulation of her blood. Paula had resented this.

      These things he must not do with Jane. Nor must he think of Paula.

      ‘In what way?’ he said.

      ‘I need careful handling.’

      ‘You’ll get it from me, darling,’ he said.

      He fingered her breasts absent-mindedly.

      ‘I’m glad you came in that day,’ said Jane.

      ‘I hope you always will be,’ said Pegasus.

      ‘What do you mean by that?’

      ‘Nothing.’

      ‘It sounded sinister. Like a premonition.’

      ‘You’re imagining things.’

      ‘Well there you are, you see. I need careful handling.’

      Pegasus had been having a drink in the bar. They had gazed at each other and then they had realized that the gaze was a declaration of intent. Now here they were in bed.

      ‘What I meant,’ said Pegasus, ‘if I meant anything, is that so far we’ve only done the easy bit. To agree what you want out of sex is easier than agreeing what you want out of almost anything else — unless one of you is some kind of a pervert, of course.’ He ran his hand slowly up her slim, widening thigh, feeling an echo of his past desire. ‘I mean you’d be far more likely to argue over what to have for dinner than about sex.’

      ‘There’s more choice.’ Her sudden smile was warm, wide and white.

      ‘Sex only becomes a problem between you when you don’t want it. Then it suddenly seems unimportant what you have for dinner.’

      ‘You’re very talkative.’

      ‘I’ve never heard of any totally satisfactory way of behaving after making love. Smoking strikes me as repulsive, falling asleep as worse, kissing as an anti-climax. I become talkative.’

      He ran his hands over her gently curved, almost boyish, hips.

      ‘Why have you been faithful for so long?’ he asked.

      ‘Well I kept hoping things would get better between us. You do. You don’t let yourself admit that it could possibly be permanent.’

      He held her more tightly, as if by hurting her he could convince her of his power to help. Then he let go, sat back and looked at her. She drew her knees up like someone much younger and he held her right knee firmly, enjoying its knobble.

      ‘I’m frightened of running this place,’ she said.

      ‘But I think you do it very well.’

      ‘I’m too thin,’ she said.

      ‘You’re not thin. You’re slim.’

      She was a little thin. Arms, legs, hips. Not thin, but on the thin side. Nice.

      ‘You’re beautiful,’ he said.

      As he kissed her he felt that she was a little stiff and distant. He wanted to get up, to walk outside, to drink fruit juice. He kissed her arm, and drew gently up his nose her particular range of scents, which reminded him of a tin full of broken biscuits and grass, not that he had ever smelt a tin full of broken biscuits and grass. He pulled the sheet over their heads to make a dark secret place, wanting as he did so to watch cricket, to loll against a gate, to drink fruit juice. Feeling as he wanted that he must seek an explanation of her sudden slight stiffness, of her withdrawal symptoms. And as he sought his explanation still wanting, wanting the sun, laughter, fruit juice.

      ‘What’s wrong?’

      ‘Nothing.’

      ‘Yes. Something is. Tell me.’

      ‘It’s just me, being me,’ said Jane.

      ‘Tell me.’

      ‘No. Quick. Talk about yourself. Tell me all about yourself.’

      He was astonished at the urgency of her appeal. But he obeyed. It was nice to be told to talk about oneself.

      ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m a fairly ordinary person.’

      ‘Rub me gently while you talk,’ she said.

      While he talked he rubbed her gently. His eyes were looking at the soft white clouds. Part of his mind was thinking solely of fruit juice.

      He told her about his Uxbridge childhood. School. University. Nostalgic trivia. Selected anecdotes. Humorous self-deprecation. Himself seeing his own life in a wry light. Paula, the only other woman he had ever slept with. A few snatches of self-truth.

      ‘Thank you. That’s better,’ she said when he had finished.

      ‘Good.’

      She explained about her symptoms. Something about seeing herself as something outside herself, therefore being a void looking at herself. Undoubtedly true, yet difficult to believe in. Difficult to comprehend the experience.

      ‘You don’t mind?’ she asked.

      ‘Of course not.’

      There was a knock on the door. They both sat up, alarmed.

      ‘Are you there, Mrs Hassett?’ came a comfortingly unconcerned voice.

      ‘Yes. What is it, Patsy?’

      ‘There’s been a bit of trouble, Mrs Hassett, over light bulbs. There’s two gone and we can’t find …’

      ‘Just a moment. I’ll come and see to it.’

      Thank God. It wasn’t him.

      ‘Time to get up anyway,’ said Jane. ‘And you’re due back on duty, aren’t you? I’m your employer, don’t forget.’

      ‘I hope I give every satisfaction, ma’am.’

      She jumped out of bed, tip-toed rapidly to her clothes, shy now of her nudity, pale, a few veins showing, her breasts themselves light bulbs, her buttocks superb. She dressed rapidly, kissed him and left the room, locking the door behind her.

      Ugh, the necessity for stealth.

      This was their bedroom, hers and Tony’s. But he didn’t feel an intruder, perhaps because it was part of the hotel, or perhaps because there were no photos of smiling innocent children on the dressing table.

      He began to dress, keeping well away from the window. Mrs Hassett! He repudiated the Hassett. Did this mean that he was repudiating her past life. ‘You won’t accept that my whole life before we met has actually happened,’ Paula had said. ‘You’re jealous of my having a past.’ Unfair. No, it was just that it was Hassett. Now if it was … but he couldn’t think of any name that he would have been happy to find her already bearing.

      And he must stop thinking of Paula.

      Well, Paula dear, we are free of each other and I see now that it is all for the best. Anyway, Paula, I’m sorry that I was such a bore, sending all those awful unfair letters, and visiting the seat in Kensington Gardens like that, though of course you didn’t know I was doing that. I only hope that you and Simon will be happy, and that his translations of Ogden Nash are coming along well. Correction — I hope that you and Simon will bust up and that he will find it impossible to continue with

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