for the revue at elevenâif Iâm sober enough.â
âCome and have another drink. Thatâll sober you up.
She giggled. âEverywhereâs closed on a Sunday.â
âNo. We can go up to the Traverse.â
The Traverse Theatre Club had moved since Charles had last been there doing a strange Dürrenmatt play in 1968. But he found the new premises and managed to re-establish his membership. (The girl on the box-office was distrustful until he explained his credentials as a genuine actor and culture-lover. Too many people tried to join for the clubâs relaxed drinking hours rather than its theatrical milestones.)
The media contingent from the Royal Mile Centre seemed to have been transplanted bodily to the Traverse bar. But the crush was less and Charles and Pam found a round wooden table to sit on. He fought to the counter and brought back two glasses of red wine as trophies. âCheers, Pam.â
âCheers.â She took a long swallow. Then she looked at him. âThank you.â
âWhat for?â
âBringing me here.â
âItâs nothing.â
âNo, itâs kind of you. I know itâs only because you feel sorry for me.â
âWell, I . . .â He was embarrassed. He had not done it for that reason, but his real motive was not much more defensible. âWhat do you mean?â
âYouâre just being kind. Taking me out of myself. And I appreciate it.â She spoke without rancour. âI know Iâm not very attractive.â
He laughed uneasily. âOh, come on. Whatâs that got to do with it? I mean, not that you arenât attractive, but I mean . . . Canât I just ask you for a drink because I like your company? Do you take me for a dirty old man? Iâm old enough to be your father.â (And, incidentally, old enough to be Annaâs father.)
He was floundering. Fortunately Pam did not seem to notice; she wanted to talk about her predicament. âI never realised how important being pretty was. When I lived at home, my parents kept saying I was all right and I suppose I believed them. Then, when I went to Derby, all that was taken away. What you looked like was the only thing that mattered and I was ugly.â Charles could not think of anything helpful to say. She seemed quite rational, not self-pitying, glad of an audience. She continued, âYou had to have a man.â
âOr at least fancy one?â
âYes. A frustrated romance was better than nothing. You had to assert yourself sort of . . . sexually. You know what I mean?â
Charles nodded. âYes. Have a sexual identity. At best a lover, at worst an idol.â He played his bait out gently. âA public figure, maybe . . . A symbol . . . Perhaps just a poster . . .â
Pam flushed suddenly and he knew he had a bite. âI found the poster torn up in the dustbin.â
âAh.â She looked down shamefaced.
âDid you love Willy Mariello?â
âNo. It was just . . . I donât know. All this pressure, and then Puce came to play at the Union and I met him. And, you know, he was a rock star . . .â
âPotent symbol.â
âYes. And lots of the other girls in the hail of residence thought he was marvellous and bought posters and . . .â She looked up defiantly. âItâs terrible emotional immaturity, I know. But I am emotionally immature. Thanks to a middle-class upbringing. It was just a schoolgirl crush.â
âDid you know him well?â
âNo, thatâs what makes it so pathetic. I mean, I knew him to say hello to, but nothing more. He didnât notice me.â
âYou never slept with him?â
Her eyes opened wide. âOh Lord, no.â
âSo why the rush to get rid of the poster?â
âI donât know. That was daft. I was just so confusedâwhat with the death, and the police asking all those questions . . ., and then you asking
C. J. Cherryh
Learning to Kill: Stories
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Brenda Sinclair
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