the stairwell. Doreen wouldn’t miss a couple of bottles from that hoard of hers, probably didn’t even know what she had there, and in any case Myra could replace them on Monday when she had been paid. Hal, she felt intuitively, wouldn’t like the idea, so she wouldn’t tell him. She went upstairs.
There were locks on some of the doors but none was locked. Myra opened the door into the living room and went in. The first cupboard she went to, in a shallow alcove beneath some shelves, was full of bottles of wine and she helped herself to two of Asti spumante. Turning round, she nearly dropped them out of her arms. Four dolls were looking at her from the mantelpiece, two little girls with yellow plaits, an Indian boy, and—herself. Though it was not flattering, though it was very nearly grotesque, she recognized it at once as herself from the hair, the bosom, the colors, the gold chains. Myra felt angry and a little afraid. She was glad she had taken the wine now, she didn’t feel a bit guilty or apprehensive, she was glad she had thought of it.
Harold took it for granted that his wife had been the 200 yards or so down the road to buy the wine. He would not have involved himself in an argument over it or consented to the licensee of The Woman in White cashing a check or anything of that sort, but since she had got the wine and there was, after all, something worth celebrating, he put a bookmark into Twins of Destiny and followed Myra into the dining room.
The French windows were open. The garden was green and leafy and full of shadows but glanced, too, with dark golden beams of sunshine. It was peaceful and still and very warm and a pigeon was cooing in the pear tree. Myra thought about the doll, pushed the thought fiercely away, and poured the wine.
“To us! We’re in business, Hal.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Harold. “There’s many a slip between the cup and the lip.”
“How can there be when she never made a will? We can go to Cyprus for a fortnight now. First thing we’ll do when we get the money is—buy a car!”
“You’ll have to drive it then.”
“And have the kitchenette all done with pine units. And fitted carpet in our bedroom, a sort of amber color would be nice.
They talked for a while about what they would do with the money. The warmth of the evening and the wine spread through Harold, a delicious, languid calm. He answered Myra amiably while reflecting on the dismal fate of Mary Stuart. Presently Myra got up to close the windows.
“Or we’ll have gnats in. There’s one bitten me already.” She rubbed her thigh.
Harold said facetiously, “Let’s have a look.”
She had drunk the sherry before they had started and now she staggered a bit, lifting up her skirt to show him. Harold got hold of her and pulled her down on his knee. Her face was brightly flushed, that damask rose skin of hers, and he wondered why he had ever thought she looked like Edith; there was no resemblance. Plumped on Harold’s lap, Myra was face to face with herself in the mirror on top of the sideboard. With the married man, she had sometimes looked at her own reflection in a narcissistic way and she did this now, suddenly seeing how beautiful she was, how young and voluptuous with her smooth skin and big round breasts, her mane of chestnut hair and her long legs in black spotted tights. For the first time she thought how lucky Harold was to have her for a wife, a beautiful young wife and he such a meager little gray scrap of a man. Thinking of them like that, of her having so much to give and him unworthy but greedy to receive it, excited her. She put his hands on her breasts. She reached for her wineglass.
“D’you feel like a bit?” said Harold.
Normally she would have reproached him for his vulgarity.
But she was sluggish, feeling sexier than she had done for nearly a year. “Of course I do.”
“Better go upstairs then,” said Harold.
In Mount Pleasant Hall there was for a moment
There were locks on some of the doors but none was locked. Myra opened the door into the living room and went in. The first cupboard she went to, in a shallow alcove beneath some shelves, was full of bottles of wine and she helped herself to two of Asti spumante. Turning round, she nearly dropped them out of her arms. Four dolls were looking at her from the mantelpiece, two little girls with yellow plaits, an Indian boy, and—herself. Though it was not flattering, though it was very nearly grotesque, she recognized it at once as herself from the hair, the bosom, the colors, the gold chains. Myra felt angry and a little afraid. She was glad she had taken the wine now, she didn’t feel a bit guilty or apprehensive, she was glad she had thought of it.
Harold took it for granted that his wife had been the 200 yards or so down the road to buy the wine. He would not have involved himself in an argument over it or consented to the licensee of The Woman in White cashing a check or anything of that sort, but since she had got the wine and there was, after all, something worth celebrating, he put a bookmark into Twins of Destiny and followed Myra into the dining room.
The French windows were open. The garden was green and leafy and full of shadows but glanced, too, with dark golden beams of sunshine. It was peaceful and still and very warm and a pigeon was cooing in the pear tree. Myra thought about the doll, pushed the thought fiercely away, and poured the wine.
“To us! We’re in business, Hal.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Harold. “There’s many a slip between the cup and the lip.”
“How can there be when she never made a will? We can go to Cyprus for a fortnight now. First thing we’ll do when we get the money is—buy a car!”
“You’ll have to drive it then.”
“And have the kitchenette all done with pine units. And fitted carpet in our bedroom, a sort of amber color would be nice.
They talked for a while about what they would do with the money. The warmth of the evening and the wine spread through Harold, a delicious, languid calm. He answered Myra amiably while reflecting on the dismal fate of Mary Stuart. Presently Myra got up to close the windows.
“Or we’ll have gnats in. There’s one bitten me already.” She rubbed her thigh.
Harold said facetiously, “Let’s have a look.”
She had drunk the sherry before they had started and now she staggered a bit, lifting up her skirt to show him. Harold got hold of her and pulled her down on his knee. Her face was brightly flushed, that damask rose skin of hers, and he wondered why he had ever thought she looked like Edith; there was no resemblance. Plumped on Harold’s lap, Myra was face to face with herself in the mirror on top of the sideboard. With the married man, she had sometimes looked at her own reflection in a narcissistic way and she did this now, suddenly seeing how beautiful she was, how young and voluptuous with her smooth skin and big round breasts, her mane of chestnut hair and her long legs in black spotted tights. For the first time she thought how lucky Harold was to have her for a wife, a beautiful young wife and he such a meager little gray scrap of a man. Thinking of them like that, of her having so much to give and him unworthy but greedy to receive it, excited her. She put his hands on her breasts. She reached for her wineglass.
“D’you feel like a bit?” said Harold.
Normally she would have reproached him for his vulgarity.
But she was sluggish, feeling sexier than she had done for nearly a year. “Of course I do.”
“Better go upstairs then,” said Harold.
In Mount Pleasant Hall there was for a moment
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