The Children's Bach by Helen Garner Page B

Her face was mild and expressionless. She worked efficiently, filling glasses, taking money, not meeting the eyes of those she served. Her breasts were pretty, they swelled on her ribcage, they were a mild swelling under the skin. Athena gazed at them, and at her unemotional face.
    The girl who liked Philip came back from the lavatory. She shoved in next to him again and said in a ringing tone, ‘We were discussing whether that was Kate Fitzpatrick or not, over there.’
    â€˜It is her,’ said Athena.
    The girl was not listening. She was turned towards Philip. His eyes flashed, he smiled at her, Athena felt his hard left hand pass round the girl’s back and brush against her own waist.
    â€˜Is it her?’ said the girl.
    â€˜Must be,’ said Philip.
    â€˜Yucky guy she’s with,’ said the girl. ‘Yucky, yucky guy.’
    â€˜It might be her father,’ said Athena.
    The girl was kissing Philip again. He did not kiss back. He sat there and let her kiss his forehead and the top of his hair. She had her right arm round his neck.
    â€˜Is that your boyfriend over there you were with?’ he said.
    â€˜Him? No. Lovely guy. I’ve just been in love with someone for a year. Not him. It’s over.’
    â€˜Did he leave you?’ said Philip.
    â€˜He was a beautiful guy. I really loved him. But hard. Hard as hard as hard.’
    â€˜Who’s the girl you were with?’
    â€˜That’s Rowena. My flat-mate.’
    â€˜Your flat-mate?’
    â€˜Yeah. Gorgeous, isn’t she.’
    â€˜Very pretty.’
    â€˜And not only is she very pretty. She is the nicest, loveliest person you could ever hope to meet.’
    She slung her other arm round Athena’s shoulders and bent her knees, so that their three heads were on a level at the bar like friends about to have their photo taken. Her arm was heavy, a dead weight.
    Philip did not send her away. Athena waited for her to go. In a little while she did. Philip stood up and put his arms round Athena from behind. She turned her head and he kissed her on the lips, a dry kiss.
    â€˜I’m glad you’re here,’ he said. His glance passed her shoulder. His voice was light and toneless. ‘I’m glad you said you weren’t in love with me. The minute you said that, I fell in love with you .’
    They both felt it, as a passenger in a jet senses the precise moment at which the zenith of its trajectory is reached and passed. It was not the fact of it, but the suddenness that surprised her. She said nothing. She looked at him. A single word occurred in her mind, in Dexter’s voice, flat and definite: bullshit. The light in the bar wiped everyone’s faces free of lines, of expression, of experience. It was a pink light, an apricot light.
    â€˜I think I’ll go back to the hotel,’ she said.
    He looked at her sharply. Which of them had dismissed the other? I will grow old and die, he thought, without moral consolation.
    â€˜I’ll see you there, then,’ he said.
    She nodded and walked away.
    â€˜If –’ he called after her, but she did not hear, and kept walking.
    â€˜How did you know where to find me?’
    â€˜Morty told me.’
    He was thinner. He stood without baggage in the ugly lobby.
    â€˜Come home.’
    â€˜No. I haven’t finished yet.’
    â€˜Come home.’
    â€˜I can’t.’
    â€˜Let’s go home.’
    â€˜I’ll never forgive you if you make me.’
    â€˜ Make you? How could I make you? I love you.’
    She shrugged. ‘At home I was half dead.’
    He began to cry. His face twisted, his mouth was lumpy. He gritted his teeth. He would not use the children against her, he would not.
    She saw him sob. She did not step closer. If he mentioned them, if he spoke their names, she would splinter. He was afraid of her. She had the stance and the expression of an idiot struck dumb, but an idiot who was holding an