thought Roy’s career would be the only manifestation of Paul’s interest, she had suffered in silence, but the prospect of Paul himself clambering in on the act and speaking directly to half the population was intolerable . But how to stop him? And when? As the afternoon dragged by, Eleanor concluded she would do nothing for her cause if she blundered in before knowing exactly what to do.
As she paced back and forth among buhl tables and Empire chairs, she wondered whether Paul’s excesses were changing her. Open and spontaneous on marrying, wasn’t she becoming the reverse? A tight-lipped ice-goddess, denying her spirited husband his fun. But of course … wasn’t this precisely the kind of person Paul had jokingly told her she was, right from the start? What else had he meant by telling her so often that she was the real aristocrat, whereas he crept in by the side-door of a freak inheritance? A joke perhaps, because so clearly a distortion, but the implication clear: ‘You are typecast; I am free.’ Sometimes she had been naïve enough to abet him in this travesty. Her bitchy asides, (a defence against being thought ill-educated) he read as true character. ‘That’s a very Elly answer,’ he would say.
For instance: people to dinner, an earnest political discussionabout Mr Maudling’s prospects for the Tory leadership. ‘Too fat,’ she announced briskly, ringing for the next course, and bringing to a sudden end a thoughtful conversation. And what else was ‘very Elly?’ Her toughness, her intolerance … in fact any quality that could be pinned down. Though for himself, Paul reserved a positive Houdini’s arsenal of quick-silver characteristics. Like a ship, honeycombed with watertight doors, he was unsinkable.
Yet nothing seemed to reduce her need for him; her love. Not that tough, intolerant Elly was supposed to be clinging or sentimental. (Perhaps someone else supplied these fluffy feminine things?) Undeniably he was proud of her; they looked good together in public – she dark, he fair; beautiful people both; wonderously self-assured. But in private, Eleanor sometimes got the feeling they were in public still; too self-aware to be genuinely intimate. Could this have been all Paul had hoped for when he married her?
Eleven o’clock. Lord and Lady Carnforth ‘at home’ to one another. They have dined, watched television, and talked in their brittle way about nothing much. In an armchair opposite his wife’s, Paul sipped brandy. Harmony requiring no words? Eleanor pictured Paul and Gemma at that typewriter again; they laughed and chattered; shared zany ideas. And then? But this evening Eleanor drew a mental curtain on them. She and Paul were in their own water-tight compartment, and until able to open others she would have to give her attention to the only one she knew.
Would she and Paul make love later? Partly because of her upbringing, partly because she loathed being rebuffed, but mainly because Paul liked to pretend that she was the one who granted him the favours in this line, Eleanor would not try to persuade him to fuck her unless he led the way. (‘Fuck’ was an all right word between them since Paul’s Elly was aristocratically direct and loathed mealy-mouthed euphemisms .) But Paul did not fuck her in the manner of the novels he professed to like. He would kiss her, would stroke her a little; but he would not admire her, or undress her, or sayendearing things about her body. And only now, as she gazed at her handsome husband sipping his brandy, did Eleanor see this too as part of the pattern. Torrid sex and ice-princesses were incompatible. Very-Elly-Eleanor (as Paul had shaped her) viewed sex as a mildly enjoyable physical process, which it would be vulgar to get too excited about. He behaved to her exactly as he had decided to see her. And because she still found him the most sexually attractive man she had ever met, she rarely failed to achieve orgasm. No surprises there for Paul;
As she paced back and forth among buhl tables and Empire chairs, she wondered whether Paul’s excesses were changing her. Open and spontaneous on marrying, wasn’t she becoming the reverse? A tight-lipped ice-goddess, denying her spirited husband his fun. But of course … wasn’t this precisely the kind of person Paul had jokingly told her she was, right from the start? What else had he meant by telling her so often that she was the real aristocrat, whereas he crept in by the side-door of a freak inheritance? A joke perhaps, because so clearly a distortion, but the implication clear: ‘You are typecast; I am free.’ Sometimes she had been naïve enough to abet him in this travesty. Her bitchy asides, (a defence against being thought ill-educated) he read as true character. ‘That’s a very Elly answer,’ he would say.
For instance: people to dinner, an earnest political discussionabout Mr Maudling’s prospects for the Tory leadership. ‘Too fat,’ she announced briskly, ringing for the next course, and bringing to a sudden end a thoughtful conversation. And what else was ‘very Elly?’ Her toughness, her intolerance … in fact any quality that could be pinned down. Though for himself, Paul reserved a positive Houdini’s arsenal of quick-silver characteristics. Like a ship, honeycombed with watertight doors, he was unsinkable.
Yet nothing seemed to reduce her need for him; her love. Not that tough, intolerant Elly was supposed to be clinging or sentimental. (Perhaps someone else supplied these fluffy feminine things?) Undeniably he was proud of her; they looked good together in public – she dark, he fair; beautiful people both; wonderously self-assured. But in private, Eleanor sometimes got the feeling they were in public still; too self-aware to be genuinely intimate. Could this have been all Paul had hoped for when he married her?
Eleven o’clock. Lord and Lady Carnforth ‘at home’ to one another. They have dined, watched television, and talked in their brittle way about nothing much. In an armchair opposite his wife’s, Paul sipped brandy. Harmony requiring no words? Eleanor pictured Paul and Gemma at that typewriter again; they laughed and chattered; shared zany ideas. And then? But this evening Eleanor drew a mental curtain on them. She and Paul were in their own water-tight compartment, and until able to open others she would have to give her attention to the only one she knew.
Would she and Paul make love later? Partly because of her upbringing, partly because she loathed being rebuffed, but mainly because Paul liked to pretend that she was the one who granted him the favours in this line, Eleanor would not try to persuade him to fuck her unless he led the way. (‘Fuck’ was an all right word between them since Paul’s Elly was aristocratically direct and loathed mealy-mouthed euphemisms .) But Paul did not fuck her in the manner of the novels he professed to like. He would kiss her, would stroke her a little; but he would not admire her, or undress her, or sayendearing things about her body. And only now, as she gazed at her handsome husband sipping his brandy, did Eleanor see this too as part of the pattern. Torrid sex and ice-princesses were incompatible. Very-Elly-Eleanor (as Paul had shaped her) viewed sex as a mildly enjoyable physical process, which it would be vulgar to get too excited about. He behaved to her exactly as he had decided to see her. And because she still found him the most sexually attractive man she had ever met, she rarely failed to achieve orgasm. No surprises there for Paul;
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