‘Mister Hood,’ he said. ‘Very interesting chap.’
‘Is he a friend of yours?’
‘I suppose he is. I must say he was quite taken with you.’
‘Really,’ she said, and her tone softened. ‘I was hoping you could tell me something about him.’
‘There’s not an awful lot I can tell you,’ he said. ‘I met him purely by accident some time ago. He’s become a client.’ He thought of Hood. A friendly sort. He had enjoyed his company, but Miss Nightwing was causing him distress. He wondered if at a certain age one turned to other men for consolation. Women didn’t turn to other women; they never lost their appetite for men — they still hungered at sixty. But he had only been at ease with men, and he was glad to be acting for Hood — that weekly cheque. Odd request; but it was an odd business.
‘American, isn’t he?’
‘What’s that? Oh, yes. But one of your better sort.’
‘The thing is,’ said Araba, and as she moved towards him companionably her dressing gown fell open. Mr Gawber saw her nakedness and the shock blinded him. He went shy. She said, ‘The thing is, I was counting on you to tell me where he lives. McGravy and I are giving a little party and we wanted to invite him. I said to McGravy, “I know. I’ll ask Mister Gawber. He’ll be glad to tell me.” ’
Mr Gawber laughed and said, ‘I’d love to help you out.’
‘Good,’ said Araba.
‘But I’m afraid I can’t,’ he went on. ‘Business. Silly rule, really. I don’t divulge clients’ addresses. I’ve been asked enough times for yours, my dear. I always say, “My lips are sealed,” and hope the person won’t press me too hard.’
She said, ‘But you have always been so frank with me.’
‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘I am being frank with you now. I can’t tell you a thing.’
‘All I want to know is his address. So I can contact him for this party. Surely you understand?’
He couldn’t look. The question was pardonable; but the nakedness? The dressing gown flapped. Did she know she was naked? The whiteness at the edge of his eye chilled him like snow, and he felt fear, like frost, in his own joints. He had been frozen in just that way, faced by a strange drooling dog on a footpath.
‘I understand perfectly,’ he said almost sorrowfully to the window, which held in its glaze segments of her body. Why was she putting him through this? ‘But I can’t help you. I must be going. I’m late for work as it is.’
‘Mister Gawber, I won’t let you go unless you tell me.’ She closed in on him carelessly. He folded his arms to block the view, but saw on her face an unreasonable wrath: his refusal had upset her — more than that, unhinged her. She took it personally. If she touches me I’ll scream. He wanted to be out of the house, and he thought: I will never come here again for any purpose whatsoever. He said, ‘You’re going to catch your death like that.’
‘I don’t care.’ She pushed at her dressing gown, but the white fabric was her own flesh.
‘It’s parky.’ His eyes hurt.
‘Tell me — I must know!’
‘This is very awkward,’ he said.
Araba raised one leg and put her foot on the seat of a chair. Her thigh shook. She said, ‘Don’t you have any feelings?’
‘A compromise, then.’ He straightened himself. He had seen under her flat belly a clinging mouse. ‘I’ll meet you halfway. Give me a note and I’ll see that he gets it. That’s simple enough.’
Araba said, ‘You’ve never let me down before this. Why are you protecting him? Has he something to hide?’
‘I respect privacy — yours, anyone’s.’
‘I have nothing to hide!’ said Araba and opened her dressing gown, showing her body: a narrow column of ice, the coldest candle he had ever seen. Once, she had told him she was a bitch. He had denied it, but now he saw the accuracy of it. How was it possible for the actress to play a bitch and not have malice in her? The bitch, the whore, the nag, the shrew: they lived in the actress, she gave them voice. She could not be forgiven her roles.
‘Try to understand,’ he pleaded, memorizing the carpet’s blooms.
‘All right, have it your own way,’ she said, and wrapped herself again in blue. ‘I’ll send you a letter. But if he doesn’t reply I’m bound to be a bit suspicious.’
‘I quite agree,’ said Mr Gawber. ‘But I’m sure he’ll be in touch with you. He seems a most dependable sort of chap.’
Araba said, ‘I never realized until now you hated me so much.’
He tried to reassure her, but he saw how he was failing at it and he left. Outside, his confusion hardened into anger: he raged, he swore, and again in the grassy cemetery of the heath he saw the shadow of a seam preparing to part for the canyon of a mass grave, to swallow it all. The calamity — but no, it was only a cloud passing overhead. Not yet, not yet.
16
‘You like them?’ She was wearing white thigh-length boots; the short black skirt was new as well, and standing before him she reminded him of a tropical bird with slender legs, a small-bodied heron raising her head and flicking her tail before taking flight. She walked up and down for him — the boots made her taller: not the slouching flat-footed girl anymore but a preening woman. Perhaps sensing the novelty of her height, she stood straighter and danced towards him, laughing. Then she sat down beside him and smoothed the boots. ‘I’ve always wanted ones like these. Real leather.’
‘Classy,’ said Hood. He knew they were out of fashion elsewhere, but they were still considered chic in Deptford.
‘You don’t think they make me look like a tart?’ She narrowed her eyes and peered sideways at him.
‘A little bit,’ he said. ‘Maybe that’s why I like them.’
‘I’ll go up the Broadway looking for pick-ups.’
‘You could make a fortune as a hooker,’ he said. ‘I’d take a cut.’
‘Funny,’ she said. ‘First time I seen you I took you for a ponce. Ron knew a lot of them. They’d come sniffing around for him. Something about the eyes. You’ve got mean eyes.’
‘And you’ve got a nice ass,’ he said.
‘You think so?’ She wriggled on the sofa. She laughed. ‘Me, I’m a raver — you don’t know!’
‘A new skirt, too,’ he said. ‘Nice.’
‘Got a blouse upstairs. I’m saving that for later. You can almost see through it.’
‘The hooker,’ he said.
She wrinkled her nose. ‘It don’t matter.’
The new clothes flattered her, and he knew they were for him. Lately, Lorna had begun to dress up for his afternoon visits. Suspicious at first, she had worn old dresses and slippers in the house as if to challenge his interest. She said, ‘Don’t mind me — I usually pig it around the house.’ But he noticed that she always made up her face and wore a white raincoat and silk scarf when she took Jason to the playgroup — for the other mothers. With time she relaxed; she sat in her dressing gown and drank coffee with him, talking with trusting familiarity, as if they had spent the night together. Hood had not responded to her clothes; he imagined her in other clothes, a riding outfit, a leather suit, a great robe; he played with the idea that there was no difference between her and a princess but jewels. But now she dressed for him as she did for the mothers at Jason’s playgroup, and today the clothes were new. The money had arrived.
He visited her regularly. He asked nothing of her. If there was time they smoked the pipe. She saw nothing unusual in his visits. At one time she might have been able to ask, ‘What do you want?’ and demanded he be explicit. But (and like the crescent of scar over her eye he had always meant to ask about — Weech’s work?) it was too late for that. He liked her too much to risk embarrassing her. He believed they were as close as friends could be, for the friendship had grown out of a cautious study of each other’s weaknesses. Once she had said, ‘I thought you wanted to fuck me,’ and when he laughed she added, ‘It’s better this way — for now.’ He had wanted to, but he was shamed by his advantage — his victim’s wife was also his victim — then he decided that sex made a couple unequal with doubting tension: if sex was tried it became the only reassurance, and there was power for the one who withheld it. That part had been set aside, though for Hood it was accidental — he had only desired her the first instant he’d seen her rushing out of the house. He hadn’t known who she was and then, when he remembered, the feeling died in him; afterwards, he did not think of making love to her. His remoteness made her curious and inspired trust in her, and though he saw how she was uncertain of him in the early weeks when she had expected sexual sparring, that awkward hinting dance, after a month it was plain he had no further intentions and she stopped being defensive. She was perfectly naked, but he did not want another victim.