me, as a matter of fact. Would it to you?’
The conversation became loose, almost random, as though Stephen, having come resolved not to fence, was compelled to now. He felt quite unresolved, with nothing settled and fulfilled, jangling as in a sexual episode which had gone wrong. They talked like that, desultorily and without contact, for some time: until there was a ring at the flat bell. Lance spoke down the tube, asked who it was, pressed a button, said he was opening the door, just push and come upstairs.
‘Friend of yours,’ he said.
He couldn’t even come clean about this, Stephen thought, with another jag of irritation. Who was it, he had to ask.
‘Sylvia Ellis.’
Yes, she was a friend, Stephen had known her as long as he had known Mark or Emma. So long that, when she came in he did not see her quite as a stranger would have done. He had, somewhere in his eye or mind, a remembrance of her self-consciousness as a young girl: and, as she entered, he saw it again, while a stranger might have seen a young woman poised, firm, almost assertive. Also Stephen had watched her grow up: people now said that she was a beauty, but that wasn’t the little girl he had once played with. People of his parents’ generation went on to tell Stephen that she looked something like his mother at the same age. To an outsider, certainly, she was something of a beauty. She had a sculptured fine-drawn face with great luminous grey eyes: and there was an asymmetry or incongruity between that sensitive and nervous face and her unflimsy body, full-breasted, wide-hipped, which to some was a taunt and an attraction.
‘Sorry if I’m breaking in,’ she said.
‘Come any time,’ said Lance, with off-hand gallantry.
‘I shan’t be a minute,’ she was speaking with urgency. ‘But they told me at your house–’ she had turned to Stephen – ‘that you’d be here. I’m really looking for Mark, but I can’t find him.’
Stephen said that Mark was probably at the university, and that he would go along with her and help search for him.
‘But I’m interrupting something, aren’t I?’ Her eyes, as well as being luminous, were shrewd.
‘I think we’d about finished,’ said Stephen, in a dulled and unresilient manner.
‘It doesn’t signify a little bit,’ said Lance, whose manner by contrast was perky and free.
By this time the room was redolent with the smell of pot, and Sylvia fugitively wafted a hand in front of her face.
‘Don’t you like it, duckie?’ Lance, who hadn’t met her often, was grinning at her.
‘Not all that much.’
‘You really ought to try it some time.’ Lance began to talk to her, not so much seductively as earnestly. ‘Under careful supervision. I promise you that. It’d make all the difference in the world, you’ll find it will. You don’t know what you’re missing.’
‘What you haven’t had, you don’t miss,’ she said, as though practised in repartee with men like Lance.
‘But really. You ought to try I’ll take care of you, I guarantee. I’ve got everything here.’ He went and opened the little cupboard for her. ‘Nice acid.’ He tapped a bottle. ‘LSD to you. That can be wonderful. Sometimes one gets right outside of space and time.’
It wasn’t often that Lance was moved to eloquence. Once more, equably, she put him off.
‘I think I’d prefer to stay inside, on the whole,’ she said.
‘Oh well. No ’ard feelings?’
‘No ’ard feelings.’
Lance was still regarding her with a vestige of hope. ‘Sweetie,’ he said, ‘I suppose it isn’t your scene, really.’
‘Perhaps it isn’t.’
‘But,’ he went on, ‘we should all like to know what is.’
‘Well then,’ said Sylvia unfussily, ‘we shall all have to wait and see, shan’t we?’
12
As soon as they got outside the apartment block, Sylvia said to Stephen: ‘You’re a pair of bloody fools.’
She meant himself and Mark, and she said it in a brisk comradely fashion. She
The conversation became loose, almost random, as though Stephen, having come resolved not to fence, was compelled to now. He felt quite unresolved, with nothing settled and fulfilled, jangling as in a sexual episode which had gone wrong. They talked like that, desultorily and without contact, for some time: until there was a ring at the flat bell. Lance spoke down the tube, asked who it was, pressed a button, said he was opening the door, just push and come upstairs.
‘Friend of yours,’ he said.
He couldn’t even come clean about this, Stephen thought, with another jag of irritation. Who was it, he had to ask.
‘Sylvia Ellis.’
Yes, she was a friend, Stephen had known her as long as he had known Mark or Emma. So long that, when she came in he did not see her quite as a stranger would have done. He had, somewhere in his eye or mind, a remembrance of her self-consciousness as a young girl: and, as she entered, he saw it again, while a stranger might have seen a young woman poised, firm, almost assertive. Also Stephen had watched her grow up: people now said that she was a beauty, but that wasn’t the little girl he had once played with. People of his parents’ generation went on to tell Stephen that she looked something like his mother at the same age. To an outsider, certainly, she was something of a beauty. She had a sculptured fine-drawn face with great luminous grey eyes: and there was an asymmetry or incongruity between that sensitive and nervous face and her unflimsy body, full-breasted, wide-hipped, which to some was a taunt and an attraction.
‘Sorry if I’m breaking in,’ she said.
‘Come any time,’ said Lance, with off-hand gallantry.
‘I shan’t be a minute,’ she was speaking with urgency. ‘But they told me at your house–’ she had turned to Stephen – ‘that you’d be here. I’m really looking for Mark, but I can’t find him.’
Stephen said that Mark was probably at the university, and that he would go along with her and help search for him.
‘But I’m interrupting something, aren’t I?’ Her eyes, as well as being luminous, were shrewd.
‘I think we’d about finished,’ said Stephen, in a dulled and unresilient manner.
‘It doesn’t signify a little bit,’ said Lance, whose manner by contrast was perky and free.
By this time the room was redolent with the smell of pot, and Sylvia fugitively wafted a hand in front of her face.
‘Don’t you like it, duckie?’ Lance, who hadn’t met her often, was grinning at her.
‘Not all that much.’
‘You really ought to try it some time.’ Lance began to talk to her, not so much seductively as earnestly. ‘Under careful supervision. I promise you that. It’d make all the difference in the world, you’ll find it will. You don’t know what you’re missing.’
‘What you haven’t had, you don’t miss,’ she said, as though practised in repartee with men like Lance.
‘But really. You ought to try I’ll take care of you, I guarantee. I’ve got everything here.’ He went and opened the little cupboard for her. ‘Nice acid.’ He tapped a bottle. ‘LSD to you. That can be wonderful. Sometimes one gets right outside of space and time.’
It wasn’t often that Lance was moved to eloquence. Once more, equably, she put him off.
‘I think I’d prefer to stay inside, on the whole,’ she said.
‘Oh well. No ’ard feelings?’
‘No ’ard feelings.’
Lance was still regarding her with a vestige of hope. ‘Sweetie,’ he said, ‘I suppose it isn’t your scene, really.’
‘Perhaps it isn’t.’
‘But,’ he went on, ‘we should all like to know what is.’
‘Well then,’ said Sylvia unfussily, ‘we shall all have to wait and see, shan’t we?’
12
As soon as they got outside the apartment block, Sylvia said to Stephen: ‘You’re a pair of bloody fools.’
She meant himself and Mark, and she said it in a brisk comradely fashion. She
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