because I can’t. Even though I was demented with worry over Hardy last night, a hundred times I nearly risked it and picked up the phone, which would have been madness, because any minute Tory could have picked it up in the kitchen. It’s difficult enough for us to find time to see each other without complicating things. All right, end of lecture, I’m not going to kiss you because I must have smoked a hundred cigarettes in the last twenty-four hours and I don’t want to put you off even before we’ve got started.”
“You couldn’t, truly you couldn’t.” She threw herself into his arms, half crying, half laughing.
He held her for a long time, not speaking, just stroking her hair. Then he said, “I’m off to the Bath and Wells tomorrow for three days. Why don’t you drive over? We could have dinner.”
“That would be just lovely.”
“Or I could book a room in one of the nearby hotels.”
He felt her stiffen.
“I don’t know.”
How could she explain that he was so desperately important to her that she couldn’t bear him to go off her so soon? She knew he would, once he realized how hopeless she was in bed.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know you well enough.”
He laughed. “There’s no more satisfying way of getting to know someone better.”
He rang the next day to tell her the name of the hotel and what time he thought he’d get there. He didn’t mean to bully her, but he felt privately it was vital to bed her as soon as possible. Not just because he wanted her like hell, but because he felt he’d never make any real progress in restoring her self-confidence until he got to grips with her particular hang-ups. On several occasions he’d heard gossip that she was frigid. He didn’t believe it. Frigid was a gross oversimplification, a term often used scornfully by men about women who no longer loved them physically. He believed Helen had been very badly frightened, but was not frigid.
He wished he could spend hours in her box, talking to her, soothing her, making her feel secure. But he had so little time. If he was going to be picked for Los Angeles he couldn’t let up for a second. And so he insisted on her meeting him that night at the hotel.
Helen sat alone in her bedroom at dusk. There was no wind. Outside, sheep were calling to lambs, baby house martins under the eaves were squeaking peremptorily for their parents to catch insects more quickly. The white cherries shone luminous in the half-light. The rank, peasant smell of wild garlic in the wood threatened to extinguish the sweet, delicate scent of the pink clematis, which swarmed round the bedroom window. Her pink track shoes were yellow with buttercup pollen, from wandering aimlessly through the fields all afternoon blowing dandelion clocks. This time tomorrow, she thought, I’ll be in bed with Jake.
She had never been so frightened in her life. She wished she could pray, but how could she ask God to help her be better in bed with someone who wasn’t her husband. She still hadn’t planned her alibi for tomorrow night. Charlene was already going out, so she’d have to ask one of the grooms to babysit. Always before, she’d left a telephone number where she could be reached, but she could hardly give them the number of the Nirvana Motel. And how was she going to smuggle her suitcase out to the car? She’d have to send the children out for yet another picnic.
Even worse, she’d been sitting on her bed, trimming her bush with nail scissors, when Charlene had walked in with some ironed clothes and Helen had hastily to pretend she was cutting her toenails. Anyway, what was the point of trimming her bush when the thing it covered was the trouble? Over and over again, Rupert’s words came back to haunt her: “You’re just like a bloody frozen chicken. Every time I put my hand in there I expect to pull out the giblets.”
And she was so thin now, it would be like going to bed with an Oxfam ad. She had a blinding headache so she took some of Jake’s medicine. Gradually the pain eased and she felt calmer. Maybe if he could cure her head, he could melt the ice of her frigidity as well.
But it was as if some malignant fate were at work. Just as she was leaving Penscombe the following day, she discovered she’d got her period. She’d been so preoccupied, she’d completely forgotten she was due.
She glanced at her watch. It was too late to ring Jake at the show. She could ring the Nirvana Motel and leave a message saying she couldn’t make it, but that left her with the appalling prospect of not seeing him. She’d have to go, perhaps have a quick drink — he wouldn’t want her in this state — and then come home.
It was so hot, she wore only a yellow sleeveless dress, yellow sandals, and a white silk scarf to keep her hair from tangling. As she drove very fast to meet him, she was so wracked with stomach cramps she hardly noticed the beautifully green bosky evening or the cow parsley frothing along the verges, or the smell of wild garlic, stronger than ever, like some rampant Dionysian presence pursuing her.
Waiting for Jake, she sat trembling in the hotel foyer, trying to make herself look as inconspicuous as possible. Pretending to read the evening paper, the hall porter watched her idly. You could always tell the first time they came here, he thought, they never stopped fiddling with their hair, squirting on perfume, glancing in their hand mirrors, then fearfully up at the door. Suppose he didn’t turn up; supposing someone they knew walked in. He’d even seen wives sitting here waiting for their lovers when their husbands walked in with someone else. He had another look at Helen. This one was a looker, all right, but she’d go through the ceiling with nerves in a minute. Oh, now she’d dropped her bag all over the floor. He moved forward to help as Helen fell on her knees, frantically scrabbling up banker’s cards, keys, loose change, lipsticks, and stray Lillets. At that moment, Jake sauntered through the door, his coat slung over his shoulder. He looked suntanned and happy and not remotely embarrassed.
“Hello, darling,” he said, pulling her to her feet, and kissing her on the cheek. “Did the babysitter arrive? I’ve had the most bloody day at the office. And I’m afraid my father rang to say he wants to come and stay next week.”
Just like any other married couple, thought Helen in admiration, and she had great difficulty not giggling when he signed them both in as Mr. and Mrs. Driffield.
“No, we’ll manage,” he said to the porter when he offered to carry their cases up to the fourth floor, adding in an undertone as they got into the lift, “I’m buggered if I’ll tip him for nothing.”
When he opened his case in the bedroom, all it contained was a toothbrush, toothpaste, a bottle of gin, and a large bottle of tonic.
“I think that covers all eventualities,” he said, as he fetched two glasses from the bathroom. Then, seeing the expression of misery on her face, he put them down on the dressing table and took her in his arms, trying to still the desperate trembling.
“Pet, please, you look as if you’re going to the electric chair.”
Helen burst into tears. It was some seconds before she could speak, and then he spoke for her. “You’ve got the curse.”
“How d’you know?” she said incredulously.
“I knew you had it coming. All week you were very edgy, and the day before yesterday your breasts were swollen and you had huge circles under your eyes. Fen always says just before the curse is the only time she has decent boobs.”
Helen was amazed that he should be so observant. Smoothing her hair very gently behind her ears, he removed her earrings. “Now, will you please stop crying. We don’t have to do a thing if you don’t want to.”
He poured half and half gin and tonic into the glasses and handed her one. “You got a pain?”
She nodded.
“Well gin’s the best for that. Take a big slug of it. Come on, lie down,” he said, removing her yellow high- heeled sandals. “Just relax. We’ve got hours.” He lay down beside her, draining half his drink.
“You don’t have to stay,” Helen stammered. “You might not want to — if there’s no sex.”
For a second his face blackened. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? D’you honestly think I only want you for sex?”
“I don’t know. It’s all Rupert wants.” Somehow the words spilled out before she could stop them.
“How many times,” he said wearily, “do I have to remind you, I’m not Rupert?”
“I know you’re not,” she said in a trembling voice, “but it wouldn’t make any difference if you were, or if I didn’t have a period. I’m no good to you. I’m hopeless at sex. I’m frigid.”
“Who said so?”
“Rupert did. He says I’m simply not interested in it.”
