common and garden variety by comparison. Like the common cold it affects everyone at some point, and though it may even affect them badly it seldom leads on to anything more serious. It’s not a virulent strain of disease; one shakes it off easily. There may not be a cure for it, but its symptoms can be alleviated, suppressed. Do you follow me?”
I nodded. “Another of your metaphors.”
“Another of my metaphors,” she said, and laughed. Her laugh did not last long. Her face set again and she looked at me intently. “The jealousy which I am trying to describe is extreme,” she continued, almost urgent now. “It is dangerous in a way in which your jealousy is not dangerous. It’s out of control; in some ways like a disease. What cures there are for it must be administered in its early stages or all is lost. If allowed to fester, it spreads.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“So that you will understand what I tell you tomorrow,” she said quietly.
“Tell me whatever it is now,” I said, suddenly decisive, gripping her hand as she rose to leave the table. “I can’t wait another night.”
She looked at me, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t be imperious, James. It doesn’t altogether suit you.”
“I don’t care.” I was suddenly exasperated. “You have brought me on a six-hour journey to an island I never knew existed. You have talked to me of oceans and families and … and mysterious paintings which might make things clearer. I don’t want paintings. I don’t want metaphors. I don’t even thrive much on mystery. Just tell me why you’ve brought me here.”
“Let go of me.”
“I won’t.”
“You’re making a scene.”
“I don’t care.”
I looked up at her in steady earnest and met the command in her pursed lips and blazing eyes unflinchingly. Slowly she sat down again.
“I brought you here because I thought you would help me,” she said after a moment, almost grudgingly.
“And so I will,” I replied, relaxing my grip on her hand. “But you can’t keep me in the dark like this.”
“I haven’t.”
“You have. Oh I get odd snippets here and there, I admit. You talk to me about the pressure of convention and the tide of public opinion. You talk to me about your family and a world that I don’t understand. And then you talk about jealousy, about your particular kind of jealousy.”
“It’s not mine,” she hissed.
“Then whose is it?”
“It’s not mine alone, at least. It’s … Well, if you must know it’s mine and Sarah’s.”
“Sarah’s
?”
“I know you don’t believe me. That’s why you must wait until tomorrow. You don’t believe because you don’t understand. You
can’t
understand. I have told you as much as I can …”
“About what? About why you got engaged to Charles?”
“About much more than that. But yes, about that too.”
“Then why won’t you tell me the rest now?”
“Because you won’t believe me. And you might not respect me if you did.” She pulled her hand away from mine. “I wish that a metaphor about currents and tides explained the mess I’ve made of things with Charles,” she began. “And it
does
a bit, you know. It does. But only a bit.” She smiled, calmer now. I listened.
“Of course my family are delighted that I’m marrying. Of
course
they’d be horrified if I married anyone who wasn’t as ‘suitable’ as Charlie. That’s all true. But there’s more to it than that. And I’ve got myself deep into something I can’t quite explain but which frightens me much more than marrying Charlie could possibly frighten me. Something in my past—a habit, a way of behavior, if you like—is out of control. Oh it’s not drugs,” she added quickly, seeing the look of comprehension on my face. “But I am like an addict. I’ve lost the ability to stop. The fact that I might have married Charlie has made me see that. It—this thing—is taking me over. I can see that because it has made me do something
I nodded. “Another of your metaphors.”
“Another of my metaphors,” she said, and laughed. Her laugh did not last long. Her face set again and she looked at me intently. “The jealousy which I am trying to describe is extreme,” she continued, almost urgent now. “It is dangerous in a way in which your jealousy is not dangerous. It’s out of control; in some ways like a disease. What cures there are for it must be administered in its early stages or all is lost. If allowed to fester, it spreads.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“So that you will understand what I tell you tomorrow,” she said quietly.
“Tell me whatever it is now,” I said, suddenly decisive, gripping her hand as she rose to leave the table. “I can’t wait another night.”
She looked at me, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t be imperious, James. It doesn’t altogether suit you.”
“I don’t care.” I was suddenly exasperated. “You have brought me on a six-hour journey to an island I never knew existed. You have talked to me of oceans and families and … and mysterious paintings which might make things clearer. I don’t want paintings. I don’t want metaphors. I don’t even thrive much on mystery. Just tell me why you’ve brought me here.”
“Let go of me.”
“I won’t.”
“You’re making a scene.”
“I don’t care.”
I looked up at her in steady earnest and met the command in her pursed lips and blazing eyes unflinchingly. Slowly she sat down again.
“I brought you here because I thought you would help me,” she said after a moment, almost grudgingly.
“And so I will,” I replied, relaxing my grip on her hand. “But you can’t keep me in the dark like this.”
“I haven’t.”
“You have. Oh I get odd snippets here and there, I admit. You talk to me about the pressure of convention and the tide of public opinion. You talk to me about your family and a world that I don’t understand. And then you talk about jealousy, about your particular kind of jealousy.”
“It’s not mine,” she hissed.
“Then whose is it?”
“It’s not mine alone, at least. It’s … Well, if you must know it’s mine and Sarah’s.”
“Sarah’s
?”
“I know you don’t believe me. That’s why you must wait until tomorrow. You don’t believe because you don’t understand. You
can’t
understand. I have told you as much as I can …”
“About what? About why you got engaged to Charles?”
“About much more than that. But yes, about that too.”
“Then why won’t you tell me the rest now?”
“Because you won’t believe me. And you might not respect me if you did.” She pulled her hand away from mine. “I wish that a metaphor about currents and tides explained the mess I’ve made of things with Charles,” she began. “And it
does
a bit, you know. It does. But only a bit.” She smiled, calmer now. I listened.
“Of course my family are delighted that I’m marrying. Of
course
they’d be horrified if I married anyone who wasn’t as ‘suitable’ as Charlie. That’s all true. But there’s more to it than that. And I’ve got myself deep into something I can’t quite explain but which frightens me much more than marrying Charlie could possibly frighten me. Something in my past—a habit, a way of behavior, if you like—is out of control. Oh it’s not drugs,” she added quickly, seeing the look of comprehension on my face. “But I am like an addict. I’ve lost the ability to stop. The fact that I might have married Charlie has made me see that. It—this thing—is taking me over. I can see that because it has made me do something
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