‘Now you’re just being—’
‘It’s so easy, in fact, that I’ll show you again – look.’ Bettina pointed at her mouth. ‘The only time you speak to my daughter is when you are offering corrections and criticisms and actually, you act at all times like she is a mildly unpleasant smell you must tolerate, and actually, the main reason I don’t invite you to stay over more often has nothing to do with Bart, it’s because you are a cold fish with my daughter, so I repeat, using my mouth again, like so’ – she jabbed a finger at her mouth once more – ‘take my husband’s slippers and shirt off. And just go!’
Jean started unbuttoning the shirt, her hands shaking violently. Oh, she was angry. But then, she was always angry, with her snip-snapping eggshell moods and explosive indignation, then her subsequent apologies and excuses: oh, what an abused child she’d been, her brothers were such brutes and she was so terrified of rejection, of abandonment – the implication here being that Bettina would have to be a truly cruel bitch to abandon her, and the consequences might be tragic. Well, so be it.
Jean grew impatient and tore the shirt open, buttons pinging across the room. She stood, buzzing, in her vest and – well, would you look at that: the vest was Bart’s too! She kicked the slippers off, bundled up the shirt and tossed it in the fire. Black flowers bloomed on the white shirt and silvery trails of smoke rose up like treble clefs.
Bettina lay on the sofa on her side, a cushion supporting her stomach and a half-empty bottle of claret on a small table at arm’s length.
Bart would love this. Oh, he would absolutely delight in this – a victory jig, behind closed doors. He loathed Jean and hadn’t tried very hard to conceal the fact. Bettina had hated him for hating her. Won’t even give her a chance, she’d thought. She’d been warm and open with Étienne. Welcomed him into her home and heart. And yes, Étienne was a lot nicer than Jean. But for all Bart knew, Jean might be a sweetheart underneath it all. There were lots of people who were stinkers on the outside but darlings on the inside – they were often the best people.
Jean was not one of them.
Bart had been right.
Oh, he was going to bloody love this.
She finished her wine and poured another.
A knock at the door.
‘Come in.’
It was Doris. She held her apron crumpled up in her hands. ‘Sorry to interrupt you, Mrs Dawes. Just wanted to check if it’s to be the lamb cutlets tomorrow.’
‘Yes. Sorry, I should have come and told you.’
She flapped a hand. ‘Och, no. You’ve had all that unpleasantness today, you’re right to rest up.’ She bunched up her apron with both hands as if moulding a snowball. ‘I do hope I didn’t make things worse earlier.’
‘Of course not, Doris. I’m only sorry you were put in that position.’
‘Did you see what she was wearing, too?’
‘I did.’
Doris shook her head gravely. ‘Shocking level of disrespect, if you don’t mind me saying. I never knew what you saw in her, to be quite honest. I know she was helping you with your book, her being a literary sort, but you’ve other friends just as qualified to help, ones who wouldn’t strut about the place wearing your husband’s clothes while he’s away earning the family crust.’ Another grim head-shake. ‘I know it’s none of my business, Mrs Dawes, who you keep company with. But if you’ll permit me to say – an unmarried woman her age, wearing man’s clothes… there’s something not quite right there.’
Bettina stared at her. ‘You’re right,’ she wanted to say. ‘It’s none of your business.’ Such a strange feeling – for one’s contempt of a person to suddenly turn to a wish to defend them, or their nature, at the least. Of course Doris felt no kindness for the inverts of the world – why would she? Only a fool would expect anything else. Yet to be reminded of this was like a slap; no, not quite so bad as a slap – it was like a glass of water in the face. This was what came from living in a bubble, from surrounding yourself with like-minded people. It became easy to forget that the rest of the world was in sharp disagreement. Was, in fact, disgusted.
Hypocrites, tiny-minded hypocrites.
She was going to bloody well say it, actually.
‘You’re right – it isn’t any of your business.’ Head tilted just so. ‘Make sure there’s mint sauce to go with the lamb tomorrow. Thank you.’
‘I’ve just got her off to sleep,’ said Megan, standing in the same spot Doris had filled an hour previously. ‘She made me read her storybook three times.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bettina, still lying on the sofa. ‘Why don’t you come and have a glass of wine with me?’
Megan looked at the bottle with a panicked show of politeness. ‘I don’t drink, sorry. Alcohol and my family don’t mix well.’
‘Oh, right. Of course. Well, why don’t you come and talk to me then?’ Bettina pulled herself to a sitting position, wincing as a bolt of sciatic pain went up her thigh, and patted the cushion next to her. ‘We so seldom get a chance to talk properly. It’s all been nappies and first steps.’
‘Very well,’ said Megan, taking a seat.
‘Chocolate truffle?’ Bettina offered, holding out a box.
‘Now that’s more like it!’ Megan plucked one out.
‘So what do you like to do?’ said Bettina. ‘When you’re not engaged with work, I mean.’
Megan hurriedly chewed her chocolate, dipping her head, and swallowed. Bettina watched her throat bulge. ‘I go to the Regal a lot. I stop in the market first and buy sugared almonds and a Chelsea bun and I sneak them in. Last Sunday I saw Mata Hari, Garbo’s my absolute favourite. No. No – I lie. Harlow. She’s got such a vivacious personality. You know, I once tried to pluck my eyebrows like hers and I ended up with barely a hair left. Oh, what did I look like?’
‘Bart has told me some eye-opening things about Garbo. She goes with women, you know. Bart knows someone who knows someone and – you get the picture.’
This was the first time Bettina had ever broached the subject of lesbianism with Megan. They did discuss things of a personal nature, sometimes – it wasn’t all just nappies and first steps – but never that. It was a truly huge elephant, and the room was getting smaller.
Megan’s eyes were wide. ‘Really?’
‘Supposedly.’
‘That is news indeed, Mrs Dawes.’
‘Please, call me Bettina.’
Megan nodded unsurely. ‘Could I have another chocolate? I rarely treat myself to sweets. Can’t be trusted with them.’
‘Have as many as you like.’ Bettina sipped her wine, trying to look at Megan without appearing as if she were looking. Her skin was tanned a honey-brown – nothing like the candlestick pallor of Jean’s skin. Megan, of course, was outdoors often with Tabby. Her forearms were the darkest part of her. How would they look laid next to her stomach? Honey and milk. Next to her breasts? Better not to think about the breasts. Her eyes, though – the gold flecks scattering out from the pupil like filings around a magnet, the iris a timid green.
But why shouldn’t she think about the breasts?
She glanced over at Megan, who was choosing her next chocolate, a finger hovering over them hesitantly, even though they were all the same kind. She felt predatory, like a man, and it was strange when coupled with what she could see of herself – the pregnant belly straining at the dress, her dainty hairless feet propped up on the footstool. She imagined ripping Megan’s blouse away and grabbing those breasts. Spinning her around and penetrating her from behind, as Jean had done to her. What would it feel like? To be the man?