Suddenly, she became aware of somebody beside her and looked up from her article. Wolf. He had slipped into the seat beside her and had half-turned to smile at her.
“Phi,” he said.
For a moment Pat was confused. Had Wolf said phi?
“What did you say?” she asked.
“I just said hi,” said Wolf, smiling at her. And she thought: those teeth.
She tucked the article away in her bag. The hall was filling up now, and there was a hubbub of conversation.
“It’s Fantouse again, isn’t it?” said Wolf. “Wake me up if I fall asleep.” He closed his eyes in imitation of sleep and Pat noticed that with his eyes shut he looked vulnerable, like a little boy. And his lips were slightly parted, and she thought 102
. . . this was very dangerous. It would be just too complicated if she became involved with Wolf. Tessie would be bound to find out, and if that happened the most appalling consequences could ensue. She would have to be strong. It was perfectly possible to be strong about these things, to tell oneself that the person in question meant nothing to one, that he was not all that good-looking and that one’s stomach was not performing a somersault and one’s pulse was not racing. That was what one could tell oneself, and Pat now did. But it did not work, and any private attempts at indifference which she might try to affect would be of even less use later on in the lecture, when Wolf’s knee came to rest against hers under the writing surface which ran shelf-like in front of each seat. The knee moved naturally, not in a calculated nudge, but with that natural looseness of relaxation, casually, and this, for Pat, was the defining moment. If I leave my own knee where it is, she thought, then I send a signal to Wolf that I reciprocate, that I consent to this contact. And if I move it, then that will be an equally clear signal that I want to keep my distance. And I should want to do that . . . I have to.
Then she thought: there will be others. I don’t need this boy.
This room is full of boys and plenty of them are as attractive as this boy on my right . . . She looked up at the ceiling. She knew that she should not look at Wolf, because that would be to look into the face of the sirens and face inevitable shipwreck; but she did. “Phi,” she muttered.
“Phi yourself,” whispered Wolf. “Little Red Phiding Hood.”
In the corridor outside, in the midst of the post-Fantousian chatter, Pat turned to Wolf and addressed him in an urgent whisper.
“I’m really sorry,” she said. “I’ve thought about it. I really have. But we can’t . . .”
Wolf reached forward and placed a hand on her arm. “Listen,”
he said. “You don’t know what’s really happening. Just let me tell you.”
Pat brushed his hand away. “I know exactly what’s going on,”
she said. “You’re seeing Tessie. That’s it. You can’t see both of us.”
Wolf smiled. “But that’s what I’ve been wanting to tell you about,” he said. “Tessie and I are . . . Well, I’m about to break up with her.”
Pat stared at him. He was taller than she was, but he was bending forward now, his face close to hers. She noticed that he had neglected to shave at the edge of his mouth and there was a small patch of blonde stubble. And his shirt was lacking a button at the top. The small details, the little signs of being human; and all the time this powerful, physical presence impressing itself upon her, weakening whatever resolve there had been before. How could she resist it? Why did beauty set such a beguiling trap? The answer to that lay in biology, of course – the imperative that none of us can fight against. In the presence of beauty we are utterly reduced, made to acknowledge our powerlessness.
“Does she know?” she asked.
Wolf dropped his gaze, and Pat knew that he was ashamed.
“Yes,” he said.
Pat had not expected this reply, and she doubted that it was true. If Wolf had told Tessie of his intentions, then he would not have felt ashamed.
“You’ve told her?” she pressed. “You’ve told her that’s it over?”
Wolf looked up again. The bottom of his lip quivered as he spoke. “Not in so many words,” he said. “Not specifically. But I have discussed with her the idea that we should have a trial separation. We did talk about that.”
Pat raised an eyebrow. “A trial separation?”
“Yes,” said Wolf. “We talked about that a few weeks ago. I suggested that we might not see one another for three or four weeks and then we could see how we felt.”
“And she agreed to this?”
104
Pat sighed. It was clear to her that Tessie was determined to keep hold of Wolf and that nothing had been agreed about their splitting up. Such cases, where one person was determined to keep the relationship alive, could only be brought to an end by brutality. He would have to dump Tessie, an action which, like the word itself, was unceremonious and unkind. It was not easy to dump somebody gently; and no wonder that somebody had started a service which involved other people doing the dumping for you. One contacted a company (the dumper) who then sent an e-mail to the dumpee that said, effectively: “You’re dumped.”
In fact, the wording used was slightly more tactful. “The relationship between you and X is no longer in existence,” it said.
