Doctor's Wife (24 page)

    Chapter 17

    • She was in the shower stall in Peg’s bathroom with
an ugly plastic shower cap on her head when she heard him open the
shower door behind her. “Oh, don’t come in,” she called out,
ashamed of his seeing her in the ugly cap. But he joined her under
the water jet and, wet, embraced her from behind, then took the
soap bar and began to lather her back, soaping her thighs, his hand
caressing her bottom. Suds sliding over her skin, making her
slippery to his touch, as smiling, she turned, the silly cap
forgotten, and took the soap from him, soaping him all over until
he was dripping with lather: she looked at his penis, which stood
out throbbing, then soaped it and squeezed it so that it stood even
more urgently. Laughing, they embraced under the jet, sluicing the
soap off, until she stepped out of the shower, pulling her cap from
her head. He came after her, drying her back and bottom and,
half-dry, running, laughing like children, they went into the
bedroom and there, at eight o’clock on a gray, rainy Paris morning,
he fondled her breasts until, filled with an urgent intoxication,
she felt his left hand touch her there, exciting her clitoris, and
then his right hand guided his thick, stiff penis inside her. Only
ten minutes earlier she had been standing in the shower, her mind
gloomy with last night’s phone call from Kevin, thinking of Danny’s
illness and how she must phone home tonight, knowing today was
their last day in this flat because Peg had phoned to say she was
moving back in; it was Tuesday, the date they had arranged. Peg had
said they could stay on in the spare room, but Tom said they must
move to a hotel for the rest of the week. And now, all of those
gloomy responsibilities she had faced in the shower seemed
insubstantial as a dream. They made love, then lay for a while, and
made love again, and dozed. At last, he roused himself. “What time
should we move to the hotel?”

    “Let’s wait till after lunch,” she said.

    “All right. What would you like to do this
morning?”

    “I want to tidy this place. And we should leave some
little present for Peg, flowers perhaps, and a bottle of
cognac.”

    “All right.”

    She moved closer and lay with her head on his bare
stomach. “I have to phone home at six.”

    “Don’t worry, Danny will be all right. It’s probably
just a cold.”

    “I know. But I suppose I’ll have to explain to him
soon.”

    He was silent for a moment. “Well,” he said, “don’t
tell them definitely that you’re going to New York. Not yet.”

    “Why?”

    “Because your husband might come over here and make
a scene. Or he might phone the embassy and try to screw up your
visa.”

    “I thought of that, too,” she said.

    “So don’t say anything.”

    “All right. But I’ll have to do it
sometime
.”

    “Don’t do it today.”

    •

    That afternoon they moved back into a room on the
top floor of the Grand Hôtel des Balcons. It was larger than the
room they had occupied there seven days ago, and this time, the
balcony looked out on an inner courtyard and a hodgepodge of the
roofs of surrounding buildings. At five-thirty they walked over to
the Atrium, and at ten minutes to six, she went downstairs to the
telephone and called Belfast.

    “Kevin?”

    “Hello, Shee.”

    “How is he?”

    “Oh, he’s grand. His temperature is down and he’s
sitting up and taking nourishment. It was probably some little
virus. He’s better.”

    “Would you like me to speak to him?”

    “Well, I don’t know. You’re not exactly a great
favorite in this house at the moment.”

    “Maybe I should say hello to him, at least.”

    “All right. Hold on, I’ll ask him.”

    He went away. She stood in the plastic phone bubble,
looking down the corridor to where the lavatory attendant, a stout
woman in a white smock, sat knitting a pullover. In front of the
woman was a tray with three one-franc pieces attached to it by
cellophane tape. Mrs. Redden looked at the woman, and at the plate,
and felt herself begin to tremble. If I go away on the plane and
never tell him, never tell my only child, what will he think about
me, what will he feel about me the rest of his life? Will I ever
see him again?

    “Hello?” It was not Danny, it was Kevin.

    “Yes.”

    “Look, Shee, he doesn’t want to talk to you.”

    “Oh.”

    “Maybe it’s just as well. I mean, for now.”

    “Yes,” she said. Her trembling diminished.

    “Have you thought about what I said to you last
night? About emigrating.”

    “Yes.”

    “Well, and have you any good news for me, I hope? Ha
ha?”

    “Kevin, it wouldn’t make any difference if we
emigrated.”

    “I see. So you’re off to America, is that it?”

    “I didn’t say that.”

    “Well, are you or aren’t you going to America? Or
are you planning to slip off without even telling us?”

    “Kevin, I’ve already left home. I told you
that.”

    “So you don’t care if you never see Danny
again?”

    “That will be up to you.”

    “All right. You
won’t
see him again. He
won’t want to see you. Especially after what he’ll have to go
through when the whole world knows his mother ran off and left him.
When he’s known as the kid whose mother became a whore.”

    “There’s not much point in us talking, is
there?”

    “Wait a minute,” he said. “Ah, Shee, I’m sorry I
lost my temper. When am I going to hear from you again?”

    “I don’t know. Goodbye, Kevin.”

    She put the receiver down. She felt the trembling
increase and at the same time felt nauseated, as though she would
vomit. She stood for a moment, then went shakily up the steps to
the main floor of the café, where a handsome gray-haired man was
sitting talking to Tom. For a moment she did not recognize him but,
as she went closer, remembered he was Peg’s friend, Ivo. As she
came up, the gray-haired man stood, bowing to her in an exaggerated
manner. “
Bonsoir, Madame
. How nice to see you again.” He
drew out a chair for her. She turned toward Tom, who looked
worried.

    “All right?” he asked.

    “Yes, he’s much better.”

    “Great.”

    He signaled a waiter, then put his hand on hers.
“You look as though you need a drink. A Pernod, okay?”

    “So you are off to America?” the Yugoslav said.

    She looked at Tom.

    “I would very much like to go to America,” the
Yugoslav said. “France is not a country for a foreigner. Very
un-democratical, especially for
réfugiés
from the
socialist countries. I envy you,
Madame
. Of course, you
will have to live with this fellow.” He slapped Tom on the back.
“And I know, from my own experience, that will not be easy.” His
laugh showed even white teeth, but at the back of his mouth she saw
the steel clip of a bridge.

    “Sheila’s not as fussy a housekeeper as you are,”
Tom said. “So we get on fine.”

    At that moment the waiter put her Pernod on the
table. When she poured water in it, she saw the tremor in her hand.
“
A votre santé
,” the Yugoslav said, raising his glass of
vermouth.

    “
A la vôtre
,” she said. The Yugoslav smiled
at her flirtatiously. “
Madame
, you have created a monster.
This fellow. He’s a different man since he met you. Jealous. If I
smile at you—
regarde sa gueule
!”

    She turned to Tom. She wished this bloody idiot
would go away. But Tom laughed, embarrassed.

    “Peg and I had the pleasure of meeting your brother
the doctor,” the Yugoslav said. “A most charming man.”

    “Where
is
Peg?” she asked.

    “You didn’t see her downstairs?”

    “No.”

    “Wait.” He swiveled in his chair and peered toward
the rear of the café. “Ah, here she is.”

    Peg, coming up the stairs from the lavabos, dressed
in a green coat and gray slacks, her satchel purse swinging from
her hip as she strode toward the table with a look on her face
which did not seem entirely friendly. “So here you are,” Peg said.
“The hideaways. I thought we might track you down here.”

    Mrs. Redden rose and, guiltily, bent over to kiss
her small friend on the cheek.

    “I thought you and I were supposed to get in touch.”
Peg said.

    “I’m sorry.”

    Peg turned to Tom. “By the way, thank you both for
the flowers and the cognac. You shouldn’t have done it.”

    “What will you drink?” Tom asked.

    “Nothing, thanks. How are you getting on?”

    “Great. We’ve got Sheila’s visa.”

    “Before you go to America,” the Yugoslav said, “I
want to cook dinner for you. My special turkey.
Cùrka na
Podvarku
.”

    “It’s terrific,” Tom told Mrs. Redden.

    “And champagne,” the Yugoslav said. “We will have
champagne. We must fix a night.”

    “Sheila, I wonder if I could have a word with you,”
Peg said quietly.

    “Maybe we will have a glass of champagne now,” the
Yugoslav said. “To celebrate you getting your visa.”

    “No,” Peg said. “At least, not for me. Sheila and I
have a little errand to do. Why don’t you and Tom finish your drink
and wait for us here. We won’t be long.”

    “What’s this, what errand?” the Yugoslav asked.

    “We’ll be only ten minutes,” Peg said.

    “
Le donne, le donne
,” the Yugoslav said,
smiling.

    Tom Lowry looked across the table. “Are you okay,
Sheila?”

    “Yes, of course.” She stood, taking up her purse.
“We won’t be long.”

    Peg, going with her, turned as they reached the
street and waved back, smiling falsely at the two men. Outside, she
took hold of Mrs. Redden’s arm. “I came here specially to see if I
could find you.”

    “Where do you want to go?”

    “Oh, let’s just walk.”

    Peg’s hand, holding Mrs. Redden’s arm, seemed the
hand of a jailer. The sky was dark with a hint of rain: the wind
cold, the day dying. “You know, of course, that I saw Owen the
other night?”

    “Yes, I’m sorry about that. It must have been
awkward for you.”

    Peg did not answer, but guided Mrs. Redden into the
rue de Seine. “Poor Owen,” she said. “It must be ten years since I
last saw him.”

    “He’s got very old, hasn’t he?” Mrs. Redden
said.

    “We’re none of us getting any younger.”

    “I know.”

    “He’s worried about you, Sheila. Did he tell you
he’s afraid you might be risking a nervous breakdown?”

    “That’s a lot of rubbish.”

    “Is it?”

    “Yes, it is. Now that they can’t put the fear of God
into you any more, they put the fear of going mad instead.”

    “It worried me, though. All that stuff about
depression and mental crisis.”

    “Falling in love
is
a mental crisis.”

    “Oh, Sheila!” Peg said.

    Mrs. Redden turned away, looking into a shop window
filled with handbags, seeing not the display but a pale reflection
of her own face. “Anyway, if it doesn’t work out, I can always come
back,” she said.

    “And what about your child?”

    “Danny’s fifteen. He’s not a child. In three or four
years he’ll be leaving me, anyway.”

    Peg lit a cigarette after two tries with her book
matches. Puffing on it, she turned back to Mrs. Redden as though
she had made up her mind. “The thing that worries me, though,” she
said, “is that people Tom’s age fall in and out of love very
easily. Don’t you remember what it was like when you were
twenty-six?”

    “When I was twenty-six I was married and had a
child. Now, shall we go back to the Atrium?”

    “None of my business, right?”

    “I suppose so.”

    “I’m sorry.”

    “No,
I’m
sorry,” Mrs. Redden said and put
her arm around her friend. “Look, you’ve been awfully good to us,
lending us the flat and helping us. I’m the one who landed Owen on
you. I’m sorry.”

    “All right, then,” Peg said. “I’ve said my piece.
Listen, Ivo and I are going to the new Godard film at seven. Would
you like to join us?”

    “No, thanks. You go ahead.”

    “All right. But Ivo wants to cook dinner for you
some night before you go. When are you leaving?”

    “Friday night.”

    “What about Thursday, then?”

    “Thursday. That would be nice.”

    As they re-entered the café, both men stood up.
“
Les voici
,” the Yugoslav said. “Where are your
parcels?”

    “We didn’t buy anything,” Peg said. “Ivo, we’re
going to give them dinner at my flat on Thursday. Will you do your
turkey?”

    “A pleasure.
Cûrka na Podvarku
.”

    “I’ll bring the champagne,” Tom said.

    Peg kissed Mrs. Redden on the cheek. “Thursday,
then. Let’s say at seven.”

    When Peg and Ivo went out, Mrs. Redden sat down at
the table and finished her Pernod very quickly.

    “What did she want? A heart-to-heart talk?”

    “Something like that.”

    “Ivo too.”

    “What did he say?”

    “Oh, that I’m ruining your life. Breaking up your
happy home. By the way, how was the phone call to Belfast?”

    “So so.”

    “And your husband? You didn’t tell him
anything?”

    “No. But he told me that if I go to America he’ll
never let me see Danny again.”

    “The bastard.” He reached across the table and took
her hand. “Are you upset?”