One Thursday evening in mid-March, Ellie and Henry walked together in Hyde Park. Whenever Ellie made movements toward St James station he held her by the hand and wouldn’t let her go. The fig trees swung with bats and somewhere in the park a possum cried out. The water in the fountain threw light over the green legs of Apollo, who was otherwise lost in darkness. Here Henry pleaded with Ellie in a low, shameful voice to give him her Friday nights, to give him everything, to love him and only him, and he told her other things which before tonight he could never have predicted he might feel, let alone say, about his need and his loneliness and all the ways in which she had changed him. She was angry and wouldn’t promise; she said to him, hurt and soft, ‘I can’t believe you would even ask,’ and when he began to defend himself she raised her voice to say, ‘I didn’t know you doubted me.’
And then, without thinking much about it, Henry thrust one arm into the water that poured from the fountain until it had soaked far beyond the elbow of his navy suit, and he held it there, or rather the water seemed to hold it, although it was cold and Ellie begged him to stop. He saw her confusion, but from a distance. He felt her kiss his face and submerge her own arm in order to take his hand and draw it out of the water; only then did he seem to be free of the fountain. They held each other and cried, both of them — in public, in Hyde Park, with other lovers and lustful young men skirting them, whistling and smiling and making comments. Henry considered his behaviour remarkable; he felt Ellie’s warm tears and the compassionate pressure of her shaking body, but was unable to believe that he was physically present for any of it.
Their wet arms chilled them both. She led him through the park and down William Street, and this time, instead of going to a restaurant, they went to a hotel she knew of — how did she know? — and there she let him see all of her, all at once. There was no doubting her beauty and her devotion, and the most extraordinary thing about her giving herself up to him was that he felt, equally or perhaps with even more certainty, that he was giving himself to her. The room had a sour smell like turning fruit, not unpleasant. Afterward, they lay together, damp and listless, until he felt himself return to his body, and then he forced them both into action: dressed her and himself, took her out to the street to find a taxi, and gave her the money to pay for it. He walked to Central station in a state of luminous calm. It was two weeks until the wedding.
* * *
The next day, after work, Kath was waiting for him at the hamburger place.
‘I don’t know what you think you’re doing,’ he said in a low voice, with a polite smile, as if someone might be watching them.
‘I stopped by for a bite,’ Kath said. ‘It’s a free country, last I heard.’ She was pert and proud. There was a new copper to her hair.
‘Suit yourself,’ he said. He ordered his hamburger at the counter, distracted, and Kath called out, ‘No onions!’ People turned to look at her, as they always did. He took a deep breath. ‘No onions,’ he said. Nothing wrong, he thought, with sharing a quick meal with a good-looking woman, a friend of the family. He kept his eye on the station for any sign of Ellie, although he had already walked her to the train and ushered her with tender regret (on both sides) to her Friday class.
‘You look … greenish,’ Kath said. ‘A bit green about the gills. You all right, Henry? Not eaten up by remorse, are you? Now that you’ve thrown away the best thing you ever had?’ Kath laughed, delighted at herself.
‘What’s all this about?’ His hamburger arrived, steaming. But the solitary pleasure of it was entirely lost.
‘I just wanted to know if you were off to the dogs tonight,’ Kath said. ‘I fancied it, is all. Fancied a night out with a friend.’
He had lifted his hamburger and now there was no putting it down. This placed him at a disadvantage. The thick slice of beetroot threatened to slide onto his plate — it purpled his bread and his tongue — and juice of some kind, silky with fat, ran over his fingers.
‘I’m getting married in two weeks,’ he said between bites.
‘Where’s the bride, then? Shouldn’t you be painting the town? It’s Friday night.’
There was something submerged about Kath’s face — something private and sly. Henry disliked it. It reminded him of how well suited they used to be; of how they’d both liked to cultivate a secret life to which they could make coy allusions.
‘She’s got a class,’ he said.
‘And you’re not invited?’
He snorted. The final bites of a hamburger were impossible in company; he abandoned them.
‘Take me to the track, then,’ Kath said. ‘We’ll go on a date.’
‘You never wanted to go on dates before,’ Henry said.
‘You never won the lottery before,’ Kath said, laughing, and two men at the counter looked over at her. They laughed too, and she seemed to absorb their approval and turn it back on them, brighter. The men watched as she put her hand on Henry’s arm. ‘You’re not a married man yet.’
Well, that was true, certainly. Kath smiled from her long immaculate face.
‘I guess I’ve missed you,’ she said.
They stood together and went out into the street.
The city was scrubbed and pale after the summer, and the buildings rose from the street with a mineral sheen. There was a leisurely rush on the pavements. Henry was aware, as he hadn’t been in some time, of the anxious thrill of Friday evening. He bought a copy of the Daily Mail.
‘I usually walk to Wenty,’ he said.
‘All that way?’ Kath showed him her heeled foot.
Henry liked the authority of hailing a taxi with a girl on his arm, and of getting into the back of it with her. Kath was wearing a short blue coat which drew attention to the bareness of her immoderate legs; Henry admired them, but with disapproval, as she stepped out of the taxi. Ellie was pretty in such a sensible way, but Kath required adjustments. She stood out on his arm. He and Ellie, he thought, stood out together. Ellie would be at her class by now. And here he was, at the dogs with Kath. Passing through the gates with this long girl at his side, Henry felt as if something had fallen over him: a soft cloak, maybe, made of silky stuff, invisible, that made him hot with knowledge and pride.
‘This feels like the Easter Show,’ Kath said, pressing him forward, lifting her face to the lights and the noise. ‘How do we make a bet?’
‘Over there,’ Henry said, and he pointed to the bookmakers, who stood under their umbrellas above the crowd, shouting, with their heavy bags strung around their necks. ‘You leave that to me.’
‘No,’ Kath said. ‘I want to know everything.’
Henry found it gratifying to teach her. She frowned at the racing form in the Mail, tracing one polished finger over the names of the dogs, creasing her forehead and saying things like ‘I like Young Lightning. He’s got a good feel to him.’ She paid no attention to all the other information on the form, so he ignored it too. Kath took a small gold pen from her handbag and as she bent to mark the dogs she liked the names of, Henry saw the darkening roots of her copper hair.
She held his hand and let him lead her to the bookies, and once there she scolded him for wanting to bet so little on each race. ‘For a man who talks big, you have no ambition,’ she said.
Henry was enjoying himself. He felt as if he’d been drinking; he felt the warmth of the crowd, of Kath’s body against his, of having money to spend. If Kath liked Young Lightning, he would put five pounds on Young Lightning to win. Henry knew he would lose. And Ellie, right now, was in a room on the northern side of the harbour, among all those pink Madonnas, those green Apollos. She would never like it here with the noisy dogs. She would ask the wrong questions, and she was sentimentaclass="underline" she would worry about the treatment of the greyhounds. Kath sat beside him on the benches, tense in her blue coat, and watched every race. Young Lightning fell in the sixth race, but Kath only laughed; Henry couldn’t care about his five pounds. This time last night, he and Ellie had been on William Street, at the hotel.