The Furnished Room by Laura Del-Rivo Page B

run over and killed. Stupid thing to happen in the country, where there are only about two cars a day. Anyway, I thought: Suppose I was to die tomorrow? You know the way kids get obsessions? Well, I got this sort of obsession that I was going to die tomorrow. At first I was frightened, and then I thought: Well, if I’m going to die tomorrow I’m going to rip it up like mad today. And I did, too.’
    â€˜What did you do?’
    â€˜Oh, invited all the other kids in to slide down my dad’s haystack. Dad was furious. I got slapped and sent to bed for it.’
    â€˜And what about the next day, when you didn’t die?’
    She laughed, dismissing it like a promise made under stress. ‘Oh, I’d forgotten about it by then. I never could think of any one thing for long. But you dig what I mean, don’t you? I always live as if I’m going to die tomorrow. Rip it up and run wild; get all the kicks I can out of life while it lasts. I can’t stay with any one man, Joe.’ Her voice had risen to a strident, ugly pitch. Then she altered again, and looked at him nervously. ‘You do understand, don’t you? I don’t want to be a bitch to you like I am to the others.’
    â€˜I wish you would stay with me,’ he said. Then he knew that it wasn’t true. He only wanted her now.
    Torrential rain was still falling and the sky was a battlefield of thunder and lightning. He looked out of the window. Behind him, Ilsa continued to talk in a hard, sophisticated voice, and made stagey gestures. ‘But, I mean, we can still be platonic friends. When people say they don’t believe in platonic friendship, well, I think they’re completely crazy. Well, I mean. I’ve got tons of platonic friends, and you’d be the favourite of the lot, darling. And we’d keep it as a terrific secret that we really love each other.’ She came and stood beside him, flashing a smile. ‘Friends?’
    â€˜Don’t be such a child, Ilsa. Do you think men are made of wood or something? I’m not, and I’m not going to be one of the string of men you keep hopelessly in love with you in order to gratify your vanity. That sort of situation may appeal to romantics, but not to me.’
    â€˜Oh, Joe, don’t be horrid, when I’ve offered to be friends.’ She pointed to the boiling kettle. ‘I’m going to be awfully nice and make the coffee, it you’ll tell me where everything is.’
    Beckett frowned, preoccupied.
    â€˜Did you hear, my honey? Where are the coffee things?’
    â€˜Oh, thanks. In the cupboard under the washstand. The mugs are there, too.’
    He watched her making the coffee. The light shone directly on her face, showing up the flaws. Her skin had a stale pallor, there was a sharpness about the bone structure, and her eyes were tired from late nights.
    She put the filled mugs on the mantelpiece, saying brightly: ‘Here you are, then. The Barnes coffee-making service. With a smile.’
    He went to pick up his mug, but instead turned and seized her. He kissed her destructively, forcing her mouth open.
    â€˜Joe-Joe...’
    â€˜Ilse-Ilse. Oh, honey...’ He cupped his hands over her trim little behind and pressed her against him.
    â€˜Oh, honey!’ Her breath caught sharply. ‘Oh, please, darling, don’t.’ Ilsa the trembler, the unreliable, was a cornered little animal now but behind her eyes was a wary, vicious glint. Ilsa was penitent only when caught; Ilsa with eyes honest-wide made promises that afterwards evaporated when she sold you out and left you only the nail-slashes of her smart remarks and smart-set laughter.
    Beckett clasped all this to him for the sake of the small percentage of their love for each other. Keeping his