The High Flyer (11 page)

V

“I’ll walk you home,” said my squire, resurrecting an era of feminist pre-history.

“No, this is 1990,” I said. “I’ll walk
you
home—or rather, to your tube station. Which one is it?”

“No tube, Ms. G! I too live in the City.”

I was most surprised. The City is not primarily a residential area. “You live in the Barbican?” I said puzzled. The Barbican is a huge complex which contains over twenty blocks of flats as well as offices, schools and the Arts Centre, so it would have been quite possible for both of us to live there without encountering each other, but I thought it strange I had never seen him if for two weeks we had been pounding the same path to work.

“No, I live in Fleetside,” he said. “My brother Gilbert, the gay activist, lets me have a room and bath on the top floor of his house there.”

“Fleetside . . . I can’t quite remember where—”

“It’s one of those lanes off New Bridge Street between Ludgate Circus and the river.”

I could not recall any houses in that area but my knowledge of the western reaches of the City was not as comprehensive as it might have been. I worked in the eastern reaches, lived on the northern boundary and seldom roamed west or south of St. Paul’s.

We drifted down Cornhill to Bank, that throbbing heart of the City where several roads meet by the Bank of England, and crossed the junction into Queen Victoria Street. To escape the traffic fumes we eventually veered into the maze of streets south of the Cathedral before moving down into the valley where the Fleet River had once flowed above ground into the Thames. Neither of us was bothering to talk much by this time. Gliding along on our tide of champagne we savoured the warmth of the evening and occasionally exchanged idle remarks.

“Did Shana the Shag-Queen ever get you to expose your forearms?”

“Hell, she wanted me to expose a good deal more than that!”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, I’m allergic to silicone. What’s all this about my forearms?”

“The fluffettes thought the skin there might decide whether you were a true redhead or just a brownhead with auburn aspirations.”

“Well, I can tell you that I’m quite definitely not a redhead! I made up my mind about that at a very early age.”

We reached New Bridge Street and paused to cross the road. To the right the traffic roared across Ludgate Circus and to our left the statue of Queen Victoria, another high flyer with a superb record of reducing the world to order, presided over the approach to Blackfriars Bridge.

“Do you ever expose your forearms in public, Tucker?”

“Why are you so mesmerised by these forearms of mine?”

“Well . . . always encased in those snow-white shirts . . . always so mysterious, so fascinating, so suggestive—”

“ ‘Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful’?”

“How well you put it!”

“That wasn’t me, that was Alfred, Lord Tennyson.”

“Oh.”

We reached the lane called Fleetside and immediately stepped out of the golden sunlight into deep shadow. Out-dated office buildings crying out for demolition rose on either side of us, and towards the end of this forlorn canyon stood a blackened Victorian church, probably some folly built by a religion-crazed City dignitary and long since closed. I was still gazing vaguely at the building when I noticed that next door there stood a house, a tall, dreary pile with steps which led up to the front door and railings which were set in the pavement above the basement. The house was the only one in the street.

“So this is where you hang out!” I exclaimed intrigued. “Your brother must be doing well if he can afford such a huge place!”

“It comes with the job.”

“What job?”

“He’s the vicar of St. Eadred’s Fleetside.”

I stopped dead. I was still staring at the house. I stared and stared until I realised I was staring at the plaque which proclaimed: “THE VICARAGE.” Beyond the house the church now seemed to be towering aggressively over the narrow street.

“You look fascinated, Ms. G! Have you never seen a vicarage before?”

I turned to face him. I took a deep breath. And I finally managed to state the obvious. “You’re a Christian.”

“Yes, but don’t let it bother you, I’m not a very good one yet.”

“I suppose I’d already realised . . . you mentioned God earlier . . . when you were talking about . . .” My voice trailed away.

“When I was talking about embracing the chaos and living dynamically—yes, we had a great talk about our religions, didn’t we? I enjoyed that. Hey, come on in and meet my brother!”

“Thanks, but I’ve got to be getting back,” I said automatically. However, I was still so bemused that I stayed rooted to the spot. “How can a gay activist be a clergyman?” I asked. “Isn’t that breaking the rules?”

“Well, Gil’s certainly not the Bishop of London’s favourite poodle, but he’s a good priest and he believes in God, which is more than some of the Church of England’s employees do these days, so the difficulty isn’t as severe as you might think . . . Come on, change your mind—let me fix you some coffee!”

“No, I’ve really got to go—”

“You think Gil’s going to do a Dracula and sink some fangs into your neck? Or are you just allergic to Christianity?”

“Of course not—on both counts! After all, everyone can believe what they like now, can’t they, since absolute truth’s been abolished and each truth’s considered to be as valid as any other truth—”

“—as the trendy nihilist said, laughing all the way to the asylum! Okay, Ms. G, if the moment to part has finally arrived may I thank you for the champagne, the job offer and the raising of my masculine consciousness, and say how much I’ve enjoyed working with you?”

I at last succeeded in pulling myself together. Achieving my warmest smile I said graciously: “You may! Many thanks for all your help, and good luck with the new novel. May I sign off by finally using your first name?”

“Only if you’ll allow me to do likewise! So long, Pussykins,” he said poker-faced, and then ran laughing up the steps to the front door before I could leap forward to commit assault and battery.

VI

Having taken a cab from Fleetside I reached Harvey Tower and soared up to the thirty-fifth floor shortly before eight-thirty. The effects of the champagne were still so potent that I felt I hardly needed the help of the lift.

“I called up for a pizza,” said Kim on my arrival, “when I discovered the fridge contained nothing but a dead radish.”

“But I had a wonderful meal planned from the freezer!”

“Forget it, we’re eating pizza. It’s keeping warm in the oven.”

I had to confess I was happy to abandon my plan to cook.

“So how was Tucker?”

“He turned me down.”

“I don’t believe it! He was trying to jack up the pay!”

“No, he’s not interested in money.”

“Everyone’s interested in money! What is he, some kind of nutcase?”

“He’s a novelist.”

“Well, there you are. He’s a nutcase.”

“No, he’s not! He’s clever and amusing and tough and brave—it takes guts to fly in the face of convention!” I retorted hotly, still too spaced out to be as careful as I should have been when commenting on my heterosexual male office companion of the last two weeks.

Kim finished his Scotch and said in a voice designed to chill a boardroom: “What’s so gutsy about being a failure and a drop-out?”

“He’s not a failure and a drop-out! He’s a damned good secretary and he’s also a published novelist!”

“If he was any good as a novelist he wouldn’t have to hire himself out as an office drone! What kind of a life does he have? What are his prospects? And why are you getting so dewy-eyed all of a sudden about some guy who’s obviously a natural-born loser?”

Automatically I reacted as I would have done if I had been attacked by a dinosaur at the office. The first stage always consisted of holding my ground and continuing to push my case in the firmest possible voice, but if this approach failed to work I moved with lightning speed into the second stage which I called “the slammer”: I bawled the offender out as if I were a sergeant-major addressing a raw recruit on the parade ground. Men are usually so dumbfounded when a woman exhibits this kind of behaviour that they lose their momentum, and during this moment of stupefaction I can step in and gut them with a short, sharp, silken put-down. Some female high flyers, I know, like to turn on the tears in order to achieve this wrong-footing of the male aggressor, but I think they run too great a risk of being dubbed “hysterical”—the favourite word in the tiger-thumpers’ vocabulary when dealing with a woman who gets the better of them.

Launching myself into stage one I held my ground and said politely but in the firmest possible voice: “Tucker doesn’t see things the way we do because he marches to a different drum. He’s a Christian.”

“Ah well, that explains it—Christians invert everything! Success is failure and death is life and poverty is riches and—”

“Why have you suddenly got so hostile?”

“Maybe because I’m damned hungry and want to eat. Maybe because I’m pissed off because you’ve spent half the evening getting drunk with some jerk you obviously find cute. Maybe because—”

I wasted no more time but launched straight into the slammer. “You’re being a real pain, Betz! Shape up, wise up and grow up, for God’s sake, before someone gives you a one-way ticket back to kindergarten!”

“—maybe because I’m remembering that prophecy about flirting with the enemy!” Kim hurled back, not only outshouting me but slickly side-stepping my attack by ignoring it. “And maybe because I’ve just been having a meeting with Mrs. Mayfield!”

Wholly outflanked I slumped down on the stool by my telescope and listened to the shattering silence which followed.

VII

“Okay,” said Kim abruptly at last. “We’ve had our spat. Let’s eat.”

“But Kim—”

“I said let’s eat.” He moved into the kitchen, took the pizza out of the oven and began to carve it up. As I joined him I was aware that my champagne high had vanished with the speed of Cinderella’s coach at the stroke of midnight. I felt taut with shock.

“It’s the pizza de luxe,” said Kim, dissecting the pizza with surgical precision. “I ordered extra mushrooms for your half and extra salami for mine.”

Managing to keep my voice level I said: “If you were lodging a complaint against Mandy Simmons, why couldn’t you just ring up?”

“I want five minutes of absolute quiet while I eat this.”

“But—”

“Five minutes. Absolute silence. Or I’m going to start getting really angry.”

I knew I had to take a stand. There was no choice. This was a crucial moment in our relationship because if I gave way to him this time there would be other times, each one more serious than the last. “I’m sorry,” I said, perfectly polite though using my hardest voice, “but I’m not going to stand for being bossed around like that in my own home.”

“I’ll do what I damn well like! It’s my home too!”

“Not legally.”

He went white. I myself was white already but with fright, not rage. We froze, each willing the other to back down, until finally he exclaimed: “Well,
shit
!” and flung the dirty carving knife on the carpet so violently that it pierced the pile and rang out on the concrete below.

Once more I cannoned into the slammer. “Shut up!” I yelled. “Knock it off! I don’t take violence, verbal or physical, from any man, so don’t even think of carrying this bloody unpleasant behaviour any further! And now I’ll give you your five minutes of absolute silence—I’ll give you five minutes to calm down, unscramble your brains and get your act together before I boot you out into the street!” Then I walked to the door before turning to gut him with the short, sharp, silken put-down. “There’s no room in this home, I assure you,” I said, “for the spirit which built the Third Reich.”

I walked out. In the passage I stumbled but righted myself. On reaching the bedroom I went out onto the balcony and stood taking huge gulps of air while the cold sweat trickled down my spine and the unshed tears burned my eyes.

He arrived exactly five minutes later with a slice of pizza wrapped in a strip of paper towel. “I’ve brought you a peace offering,” he said.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Ah, come on, sweetheart, give me a break! I’m sorry—very sorry— that I upset you.”

“That sounds more like a sentence I can get along with.” I took the slice and nibbled the thin end.

“It’s cold out here,” he said. “Let’s go in. I’ll bring the pizza into the bedroom so that we can have a picnic.”

We retired indoors. The pizza was good but I found I was still unable to do more than pretend to eat. My stomach had started to hurt, reacting to the extreme tension. In the end I abandoned my slice and just drank the Evian water which Kim had brought from the kitchen.

Eventually I said: “I apologise for that remark about the Third Reich.”

“You were upset. I’d upset you. Let’s just draw a line beneath the entire scene and move on.”

I nodded thankfully, not looking at him. I did not want him to see the tears which had sprung back into my eyes.

Soon after that he returned to the kitchen to make coffee, and later, when we were sitting together on the sofa with the steaming mugs in our hands, I at last began to relax.

But I knew my relaxation was premature. I had yet to hear about his meeting with Mrs. Mayfield.

I

“I called her earlier this week,” Kim said when I eventually nerved myself to reintroduce the subject of Mrs. Mayfield. “She was very apologetic when I told her about Mandy’s disastrous phone call. She did admit, though, that she’d asked Mandy and Steve to make a special effort to lure me back into the group, and that was when I realised I had to set up a face-to-face meeting with her.”

“I still don’t see why!”

“But you must know how it is when one’s trying to brush people off—personal contact can be vital in ensuring a permanent parting with no unpleasant consequences!”

“Well yes, but—”

“Anyway to butter her up I bought her a couple of drinks in that rooftop cocktail lounge of the Park Lane Hilton. She likes that sort of place.”

“And?”

“I managed to persuade her that it was pointless for me to keep on with the group when I finally had my life in order and didn’t need therapy any more. We did argue about whether I had my life in order, but I got her to concede group therapy wasn’t now necessary. So that’s the first step accomplished. The second step is to part from Mrs. Mayfield herself, and that’ll take longer, but I’ll get there in the end.”

“Are you telling me you’re planning to see her again?”

“Just once a month, yes. Okay, I know that’s not the news you want to hear, but—”

I decided to smother my anger. I was feeling too emotionally bruised to do otherwise, and besides, I thought I should recognise he was doing his best to dislodge these parasites who were clinging to him. “At least you’ve succeeded in ditching the group,” I said, trying to be supportive, but I was unable to stop myself adding: “When are you seeing Mrs. Mayfield again?”

“Soon, but the next meeting’s got nothing to do with the monthly sessions—she suggested I come to the Simmonses’ flat this coming Tuesday in order to say goodbye to the group. It’ll be a brief visit, but Mrs. Mayfield thought it was important that my association with the group should end on a friendly note.”

“Uh-huh.” Moving to the stool I began to peer through my telescope at the multiple patterns of light beyond the window.

“Carter?” I was aware that he too was leaving the couch, and as his fingers brushed my shoulder I knew he was inviting me to be honest with him.

Taking a deep breath I demanded: “Why didn’t you tell me earlier that you were seeing her tonight? And why didn’t you even tell me you’d spoken to her earlier this week to complain about Mandy Simmons?”

“I didn’t want to upset you. After that scene last Saturday when I had to talk about my past—”

“I appreciate your concern,” I said carefully. “Thank you. But as I’ve already said, the best way forward is not to wrap me in clingfilm to protect me from your problems, but to share them with me so that I can give you the proper support. To be frank, I hate the idea of you going back to that group for even a farewell visit, and I hate the idea of you continuing to see that woman for even a single session, but I do understand that the kid-glove treatment is the way to go in this case, so you mustn’t think I’m not willing to back you up . . . Did Mrs. Mayfield ask after me?”

“Yes, she did.” He moved away again, picking up his coffee-mug and sitting on the arm of the sofa. “She asked if you’d been flirting with the enemy.”

“Bloody hell!”

“Forget it,” he said drily. “The flirting’s finished, hasn’t it? You’re not seeing Tucker again.”

“Right.” I swivelled back on my stool to face the telescope and took another look through the lens.

“You didn’t really find him attractive, did you?”

For the second time I found the telescope had to be abandoned. “Kim, why are you suddenly behaving like someone who’s insecure with women?”

“I’m not! It’s just that you’re my wife and I’m not about to tolerate some smart-aleck no-hoper sashaying around on my territory!”

In a moment of revelation I suddenly saw how Mrs. Mayfield was undermining our marriage. First she had told Kim, who respected her opinions, that I was the wrong wife for him. Then she had thrown out a prediction about my future conduct which had made him anxious. And finally, now that her prediction had by sheer bad luck come true, she was twisting the knife by reminding him of her warning and encouraging the anxiety in his mind to mutate into anger and suspicion.

I was appalled, but I realised at once where the best course of action lay. Moving to the sofa I gently transferred his coffee-mug from his hand to the table and then gave him the steamiest of kisses before murmuring in an amused voice: “Darling, Tucker’s in love with his pen, not his penis—the entire relationship was platonic from start to finish, I promise you!”

Kim somehow avoided sagging with relief, and we wandered off to share a shower.

But I did not care for the way he had tried to trash Tucker.

I did not care for it at all.

II

Some time later, during a leisurely moment in our intimacy, he said suddenly: “You were terrific tonight.”

I was startled, not so much by the words themselves but by the fact that I had misread his reason for pausing. I thought he had been concentrating on holding back. I had been motionless, not wishing to trigger any abrupt ending, but as soon as he spoke I knew the pause had nothing to do with any concern about control. It was as if now that he was indisputably the man in possession he had paused to reflect on his conquest with satisfaction and pay the appropriate compliment. At the same time I could not help but think the compliment was odd. What had I done that was so terrific? As far as I could see I had merely survived a fearful marital row.

“Terrific?” I repeated mildly, glad I did not have to be motionless any longer; I shifted fractionally beneath him.

At once he shoved himself all the way into me and cut off my gasp by kissing me hard on the mouth. “Yeah,” he said, finally lifting his face from mine. “Terrific.” Unexpectedly he laughed and released me. I felt him slide out as he let his left hand trail down my body. “Hey,” he said, “let’s do this a little differently,” and the next moment his left arm had slipped around my body to flip me over onto my side so that I had my back to him.

“Wait a minute,” I said quickly, “what—”

“Relax!” he said at once. “Same destination.”

“Oh, fine . . .” But for some reason I felt ill at ease. It occurred to me that perhaps I was not finding it so easy to slough off the memory of that fraught conversation earlier. I had been keen to make love but I had visualised the reconciliation as a brisk blast of passion which knocked all the painful memories flat, not as a lengthy, leisurely coupling which seemed to imply our row had never taken place.

“You’re really turned on, aren’t you?” I said lightly when he slid out again and flipped me onto my back before returning by the familiar route. “This may seem a dumb question, but what exactly did I do to pull the switch?”

He did not answer. He was busy rolling us both over so that I ended up on top and he could relax against the pillows. He was still so revved up that the angle of the connection was now awkward for me. I bent over, trying to get comfortable and not altogether succeeding. “Kim?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me.”

“Later,” he said, and spun out the intercourse for a long time from a variety of different positions.

III

My bewilderment created tension when I least wanted it, and the tension exacerbated the discomfort where I least needed it. This was deeply frustrating; I felt my body was letting me down, but in fact, as I now realise, my body was faithfully transmitting the message that all was not emotionally well. In the end I faked the orgasm to try to encourage him to finish, but he took no notice—or at least he paused to allow me to go to the lavatory but then resumed as if nothing had happened. By this time I was more than confused and uncomfortable. I was unnerved. I had become accustomed to intercourse which was passionate and not infrequent but also straightforward and seldom prolonged. I always found this comforting and occasionally I found it satisfying. Certainly I was not discontented, and I often reflected how well Kim suited me. If we were now, for no apparent reason, embarking on a more extensive form of intimacy, I was delighted to match the different pace he was setting, but did this exciting new development mean he had been secretly bored for months? Why had he resisted turning up the heat before? And why had he suddenly changed?

The change was in no way frightening. No nasty practice oozed out of the closet, and the shark, who had appeared during our searing row, had quite vanished. I was playing with the dolphin again, and this time the dolphin was more affectionate and friendly than he had ever been before—and more gentle too when it was all over and he could stroke my hair and kiss my cheek before enfolding me in his arms. If I had not been so baffled—and so worried that he might have found our previous sexual relationship inadequate—I would have been very happy indeed.

Later when we were drinking Evian water to quench our thirst he said: “You’re perfect. I’m so lucky.”

I kissed him and responded with similar compliments before I was finally able to ask: “Why have you never made love to me like that before?”

“Maybe it required a special set of circumstances . . . God, that was one hell of a row we had earlier!”

“You’re not saying—” I broke off.

“No, I’m not saying I enjoyed the row! But it gave me such a charge to see you punch your way out of that tight corner!”

I was astounded. “Well, I hope you’re not looking forward to further rows in the same style!”

“No, but I just love it when you act tough!”

I could not help saying: “Most men don’t.”

“Most men are wimps,” he said with contempt, and turned out the bedside light with a yawn of contentment.

So one of us at least had converted the evening’s nightmare into a positive experience. But I was left feeling more puzzled than ever.

I felt I had understood nothing.

IV

The next morning at breakfast I felt driven to mention my bewilderment to him, and at once he moved to reassure me. “Look,” he said, “don’t start thinking that the sex up till now has been somehow insincere on my part just because I chose to keep things basic! I’ve always enjoyed myself in bed with you, but to tell the truth I found last year so stressful, thanks to the divorce and the job change, that I didn’t feel up to being more than basic anyway—so the no-frills sex suited me as much as I was sure it suited you.”

“But why were you so sure it suited me?”

“Well, you told me your previous lover had made himself very unwelcome in that department when the relationship was going to pieces, so naturally I was anxious to give you all the time you needed to readjust.”

“Ah, I see!” I said, much relieved by the simplicity of this explanation, but then I became conscious of its implausibility. “But we’ve been sleeping together for nearly eighteen months,” I said, trying to keep my voice casual. “Wasn’t that rather a long time to wait before you cast your worries about me aside?”

“I guess I was scared of alienating you by making a wrong move. I felt I had to wait until you demonstrated that you were finally able to be yourself with me—and that moment finally came during the row last night.”

I stared at him. “But that wasn’t me at all! That was just me playing the high flyer in order to survive!”

“Well, whatever you were doing you were great.” He pushed away his empty cereal bowl, drank some coffee and glanced at his watch. “I must get going.”

“But Kim—”

“What is it, sweetheart? You’re not still feeling muddled, are you?”

“Not exactly, but . . . well, you’re very confident and experienced, aren’t you, and it must have been obvious that I’d consigned my previous affair to history within days of our first meeting. So why on earth should you have been scared of alienating me by making a wrong move?”

“You were just so special,” he said, “that I was willing to go to any lengths to avoid losing you.” But even before he had completed this glib explanation the penny had dropped.

“My God!” I exclaimed in horror. “This was another of Mrs. Mayfield’s prophecies, wasn’t it? She not only said you were marrying the wrong woman—she told you our sex-life would go down the drain!”

I saw him decide that denial was not a viable response. With a shrug of his shoulders he said: “I admit she forecast sexual trouble, but surely all that matters now is that we’ve proved her wrong?”

“I’d like to shoot that old bat from six different positions! What exactly did she say?”

“Oh, just that far too much of your energy would be channelled into your work and that this would give you problems with your sex-drive and your ability to relax in bed—”

“Okay, I won’t shoot the old bat immediately—I’ll sue her for slander first! How dare she say such things about a woman she’s never met!”

Kim murmured very mildly: “You’re saying there’s no grain of truth in that assessment?”

I did a double take. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, of course anyone can have a problem with sex occasionally if they’ve got too much on their mind—”

“
What are you talking about?
”

“Maybe you think I don’t know when you’re faking it.”

“I never fake it!”

“No? When did you last have a genuine orgasm?”

“Last night! You want a detailed report of my symptoms?”

“What symptoms? Your breasts never changed colour!”

“What the hell do you think my breasts are—a set of bloody traffic lights?”

He started to laugh. “How about twin beacons on a pedestrian crossing?”

At once I saw that humour would provide me with an escape route. Laughing too I slipped my arms around his neck, gave him a quick kiss and said firmly: “No more silly questions, okay? And next time you see that witch Mayfield, do me a favour and slip arsenic in her herb tea!”

Then I slipped rapidly towards the shower-room.