A Period of Adjustment by Dirk Bogarde Page B

nine. Of course I have friends, everyone does in my business. Douggie McKenna, Ian Price are good chums.’
    â€˜On my side of the bed too? And Eric?’
    Suddenly she was flustered, waved a hand above her head. ‘The silly little idiot should never have barged in like that.’
    â€˜Should he have knocked, perhaps? At his mother’s door. In his own house?’
    â€˜It wasn’t locked.’ She started to flounder badly, clasped her hands on her thigh.
    â€˜Neither, I gather, was the bathroom on occasion. Am I right?’
    Then she collapsed into silent tears, hands to her face, head bowed, shoulders shaking. The traffic from the promenade thundered, so I wouldn’t have heard her anyway. I got up and pressed the button for room service and she fled to the privacy of the bedroom, slamming the door. Pattering Feet arrived, tut-tutted at the half-eaten meal, started to fold the table. I ordered coffee and a bottle of Heine, and he wheeled it all away. I wandered to the windows, looked down at the sparkling sea, the racing cars, skimming windsurfers, a boy running with a kite and elderly women dragging little dogs on thin leashes. Someone rolled past on skates. I’d gone too far. I had not meant to use the bathroombusiness until I hit a really sticky patch. But I’d just snapped and let it rip. No use now pretending anything.
    Pattering Feet brought in a tray with the Heine and two brandy balloons, set all down and bowed himself away, closing the door. The balloons had a large gold ‘N’ on their sides. I poured myself a stiff three inches in a whisky glass, tapped on the bedroom door, called her name quietly. She was wiping her nose roughly with a tissue, dabbed at the skin under her eyes. I offered her a large brandy, in a whisky glass too, which she took silently. Then she went and sat on the high-backed gilded settee. She chucked a couple of cushions on to the floor, lay back.
    â€˜I didn’t just meet Eric at the Cornwalls’ for supper. Surprise, surprise. It wasn’t like that at all. I remet him years ago. About four anyway. Behind your back. There wasn’t a sudden pick-up. No one knew. The children. You. Least of all you. But it was very tidy, careful, it never harmed Giles or Annicka.’
    â€˜Until now. And, anyway, I knew.’
    For a moment she let fall the careful guard she had erected. ‘You
knew?
How, for God’s sake?’
    â€˜Those little lunches you tripped off to when I was about,
not
when I was away in Rome or Boston, when I was just up in the attic working? I didn’t think that those little lunches with “Muriel” or “Maureen” at Fortnum’s or San Lorenzo were absolutely kosher. As far as I know they don’t use the same after-shave as Eric. Do they?’
    â€˜How the hell do you know
what
after-shave Eric uses? How the hell-?’
    â€˜It was always the same stink. After your “girls’ lunches”, and I was pretty certain they weren’t all into Monsieur Givenchy. Right? Anyway, you don’t have to tell me any more, we are only hurting each other needlessly. Let’s stop.’
    She pushed a bracelet up her arm, fiddled with a cuff. ‘Idon’t know what this bathroom thing was.’ Her voice had become quiet. ‘I only know I got really furious because Giles was so damned rude. Difficult. Eric didn’t want any kind of problems when he was’ – she cleared her throat – ‘in the house. He said he wouldn’t be responsible for any, well, trouble with the children. And if anything happened, a fall, something – or a bad cut – you see, Giles always locked himself in there, for ages. Refused to come out sometimes. Sulking. Silent. You can’t imagine how maddening he was. He was a real little sod. So if he ever decided to do something seriously idiotic, locked in there. Well …’ She took another pull at her drink. ‘So