Domenica poured the boiling water into the teapot. “I take it that it was a comprehension problem. After all, he seems to have only one word of English. I suppose one can put a lot of expression into one word, but the whole thing can’t have been easy.”
“Oh, we communicated quite well,” said Antonia. “It’s amazing how much one can say without actually saying anything.”
“Cistercian monks . . .” began Domenica, but the look on Antonia’s face made her trail off.
“He’s married,” said Antonia abruptly. “He showed me a picture of his wife and children.”
Domenica said nothing for a moment. Of the problems that she had foreseen with this relationship, this was not one of them, and beside this, issues of communication seemed to fade into insignificance. “I’m very sorry,” she said. It sounded trite, she knew, but it was what she felt – she was sorry.
“It’s my own fault,” said Antonia. “What else can one expect
if one takes up with somebody who’s virtually a complete stranger?”
Domenica tried to console her. “We all make mistakes when it comes to matters of the heart,” she said. “It’s part of the human condition. I’ve certainly made mistakes.”
Antonia shook her head. “One makes such mistakes in one’s twenties, perhaps,” she said. “But not later. No, there’s no excuse for me. None at all.”
It seemed to Domenica that Antonia was berating herself unnecessarily. It had been foolish of her, perhaps, to get involved so quickly, but she had no reason to apologise for that. Antonia was the victim here and so had no need to look for excuses. She thought this as she went to the kitchen cupboard to get the bottle of green ginger wine. As Domenica poured herself a small glass, Antonia continued to speak. “I’ve been such a fool. I really have.”
“You haven’t,” said Domenica. “You’ve been human – that’s all.”
“And he’s been human too?”
Domenica looked up at the ceiling. “Men take comfort where they can find it,” she said. “And all the evidence is, is it not, that they are genetically designed to take up with as many women as they can. It’s something to do with genetic survival.” She paused. “But lest you believe that I’m condoning this sort of thing, I must say that we’re designed to do exactly the opposite. We have to raise children, who take a lot of time. So we’re designed to keep men under control and in the home, providing for everybody. That’s the way it’s meant to work.”
Antonia took a sip of her Earl Grey tea. It was all very well talking about genetic destiny, she thought, but she felt let down, both by herself and by Markus. “I’ve let myself down,” she said.
“Badly.”
Domenica did not agree. “How can one let oneself down?”
she said. “Unless one is going to be intensely dualistic?”
Antonia ignored the question. “Anyway,” she said. “I’ve learned my lesson. From now on, I shall look for a very different sort of man.”
244
“One to whom you can talk?” Domenica regretted saying this the moment she spoke, but Antonia appeared not to have taken offence.
“You know that I’m writing a novel about the early Scottish saints?” she said. “Well, I shall look for a man who is the modern equivalent of the hero of my book.”
Domenica picked up her glass of green ginger wine and glanced at Antonia over the rim. “Are we being practical?” she asked. “Are there any saints out there?”
Antonia met her gaze. “I’m sure there are. It’s only a question of finding them.”
“And it will have to be an unmarried saint.”
Antonia nodded. “Naturally.”
“But where exactly will you find a contemporary saint?” said Domenica. “It’s hard enough to meet any half- decent man these days, let alone somebody saintly.”
Antonia thought for a moment. Then she said: “Saintly men presumably go to church. I shall find one at St Giles’ perhaps, or the Episcopal Cathedral over on Palmerston Place. I find Episcopalian men rather interesting, don’t you?”
Domenica stared at her neighbour. She wondered if she was perhaps not quite feeling herself, if she needed to see somebody.
First, there had been the ridiculous affair with Markus, and now there was this absurd notion that she would meet a man in church.
It really was ridiculous, she thought, quite unrealistic, risible really.
“Are you quite serious?” she asked gently.
“Of course,” said Antonia, setting her teacup down on the table. It was a Blue Spode teacup, the companion of the one which had appeared next door and which Domenica believed had been stolen.
“I’ve got a cup just like that,” said Antonia casually.
Domenica drew in her breath sharply. Antonia was a dangerous, deluded woman – an unrepentant stealer of teacups, a siren to Polish builders, a predator really. She – Domenica –
would have to proceed extremely carefully.
