‘It’s a fact.’
‘Tuna likes men.’
‘She liked me plenty enough.’
‘Tuna and you? That’s – dear God.’
‘You’re upset?’ said Jean, smiling.
Bettina laughed. ‘You wish I was upset, you bloody sadist.’ She sat heavily on Jean’s lap. ‘Upset? This is the juiciest, most delicious gossip I’ve tasted all year.’ She went to pluck the cigarettes from Jean’s breast pocket and Jean slapped at her hand.
‘Ask first,’ said Jean, wriggling around under the weight of her. ‘And stop rolling your goddamn eyes – it’s like you’re twelve years old.’
‘Please may I have a cigarette?’
‘You may.’
‘Dish the dirt then,’ said Bettina, ‘before I die of boredom.’
‘It’s quite simple. She came into my shop looking for books on the occult. She flirted with me, which is no great oddity – married women are always flirting with me because I’m an obvious target to which they can affix their desperate need for attention.’ Jean was stroking Bettina’s nude bump, fingers trailing so lightly they felt like silk handkerchiefs. ‘So she invited me over for a tarot reading, and afterwards we fucked.’
‘Just the once?’
‘A few times. I put a stop to it once I realised she was getting attached. She bought me a silk-lined cloak for Valentine’s Day. I wouldn’t accept it. She dropped the cloak into a vat of wallpaper paste. It was a very fine cloak. This was a year ago, but naturally we’re pretending to be friends now to show what good sports we are. Thus my invitation to the party.’
‘I’m flabbergasted,’ said Bettina, ‘absolutely flabbergasted. All this time and I could have confided in her about—’
‘No, no, no – don’t ever confide in her about anything. She’s got a big mouth.’
‘I’ll have you know she’s very dear to me.’
‘Still got a big mouth.’
Bettina looked down at the hand on her stomach. Around and around, counter-clockwise, feather-light. Her fingers were long, her nails neat and clean. ‘When you were with Tuna, was it like how it was with us?’
‘That’s between me and Petunia.’
‘Are you like that with everyone?’
‘Why d’you ask?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t want to come away from this feeling so cheap. And used.’
‘Maybe I want you to feel cheap and used.’
‘Oh, give it a rest, will you? I hope you realise what a cliché you are. At least kiss me or something.’
Jean considered this with the benign reluctance of a father giving in to his daughter’s request for more shoes. Then she kissed her. Nicely.
It was snowing, a light diagonal flurry that coated the hedges, bushes and the morose limestone figures rising out of Tuna’s Grecian fountain, but not the ground, not settling, so there was a resultant lack of any silly romanticism. It was most definitely unromantic. The plump flakes swirling busily under the warm yellow glow of the porch light and the specks landing on Jean’s bowler hat and shoulders – nothing romantic here. Romance had come to this house tonight to die.
‘Well, cheerio,’ said Bettina, as they made their way down the porch steps.
‘Thanks for an interesting evening.’
Jean touched the brim of her hat. ‘Same.’
They stood, glancing at each other with a kind of awkward expectation. Jean looked like she was about to say something. A snowflake landed on her cheek and she brushed it away. Bettina saw her car driving up the path, its headlights illuminating the lopsided snowflurry.
‘“On soft beds you satisfied your passion, and there was no dance, no holy place.”’ Bettina smiled. ‘See? I do read Sappho.’ And she knocked Jean’s bowler hat off her head and ran towards the car, laughing gleefully, snowflakes catching on her tongue. She heard Jean yelling after her: ‘You’re a child!’ and yelled back, ‘Then you fucked a child!’ and, still laughing, she reached the car and waited as the driver got out and rushed around to open the door for her. She climbed in, turning finally to look at Jean. She was angrily dusting her hat down. Good.
The car started, setting off down the long gravel path. Jean was going to come for her after this. She was going to casually enquire after her address from Tuna and she was going to pursue her. Because she’d challenged her. Piqued her interest. Bettina knew how people worked. People were easy to figure out. And, well, when she came around sniffing, Bettina was going to slam the door in her face – no, she would say something first. She was going to say—
She pressed her hand to her stomach. A kick! The baby was kicking – a flutter, a mischievous rat-a-tat! And she was here, alone, in the back of a chilly car, experiencing this for the first time, without Bart. Another flutter. A foot, an elbow, a hand? Did it have fingernails yet?
Well. It was really in there. Irrefutably.
‘Pleased to meet you, little one,’ she whispered, feeling like she might cry.
The car braked suddenly and she was flung forward, her hands coming up just in time to protect her face from the seat in front.
‘Sorry, Mrs Dawes – he came out of nowhere.’
There, staggering around in the middle of the path, was Bone, his nose bloodied – snowflakes were caught up in the blood, like mould on jam. He was struggling to keep hold of a large framed picture; an oil painting in vivid streaks of clashing colour of a portly red-haired woman with exaggerated, disproportionately sized breasts – completely naked, she was, her legs spread ludicrously wide, almost to the point of doing the splits, a hot-pink slash up the middle. She was smiling. But not like she meant it.
Chapter 17
A letter inside a lavender envelope. It was addressed to ‘Lady Dawes’, which was obnoxious to start with. The letter – more a note – was written in a thick, swooping hand (also obnoxious) and it read: ‘I want another look at that wicked red cunt. J.’
Bettina immediately fed it to the fire. She wasn’t going to indulge this rotten woman. There was the nursery to decorate. Yes, yes – all these other things to think about. A nanny to find, which would most likely be a headache, and baby names to consider.
All these other things to think about.
Cunt.
Awful, awful woman.
She went upstairs to take a bath, and with Bart’s loud voice booming through the walls as he rehearsed his lines, she slipped into the hot water, submerging her whole body, except for the bump which stuck out like a small island, and immediately, with no preamble, without even pretending she was in this bathtub for the sake of cleanliness, she immediately started to touch herself
(cunt)
and didn’t stop until she reached a loud, splashing climax. She closed her eyes and sighed. The worst kind of lies were the ones you told to yourself.
Dear Yank
Come to my house at 7.30 sharp this Thursday night.
P.S. Never utter that foul obscenity in my presence ever again, nor write it in any further correspondence.
She watched her staff leave then began grooming herself while knocking back gin and tonic, at one point accidentally snipping her labia with the scissors and having to stem the bleeding with Bart’s face flannel.
Jean arrived precisely on time. She took a leisurely tour of the house, hands in pockets, murmuring appreciatively at certain architectural touches. Bettina followed her around like a calf trailing its mother. Jean was wearing a man’s shirt and blazer tailored specially to fit her female shape, the waist tapered in – all this over a woman’s skirt. Men’s black brogues. On her head was a black boater with a purple sash, and complementing this, a startling bright purple flower in the lapel of her jacket.